


Nest

by emmbrancsxx0



Series: Halloween Horror [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous Narrative, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Case Fic, Death, Depression, Friends With Benefits, Horror, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Nearly Human Castiel (Supernatural), POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean, POV Dean Winchester, Psychological Horror, Rough Sex, Season/Series 15, Suspense, references to drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: After returning from Purgatory, Dean and Castiel work a case involving a drowned woman whose killer was seemingly in two places at once.  In the swamps of Florida, a mystery uncoils and threatens to split the burgeoning relationship in two.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Halloween Horror [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907248
Comments: 83
Kudos: 137





	1. The Heat

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THIS NOTE BEFORE CONTINUING!
> 
> I'm writing this in the hiatus between 15x08 and 15x09, but this fic is set post-episode 9. Obviously, I have no idea what's going to happen in that episode, or in the soon-to-be-infamous-no-matter-which-way-it-goes prayer scene. But fingers fuckin' crossed, amiright, fellas? [insert clown emoji here]
> 
> As an important... not so much warning, but more of a hazard - I didn't tag this fic as non-con or MCD, but because of the ambiguous narrative of this fic, there are some scenes that may be interpreted as non-con or MCD. They can also NOT be interpreted that way. It's nothing graphic or anything, but keep in mind that this is a psychological horror/suspense fic, and it's largely up to the reader to determine for themselves what they think happens in the following events. Basically, I want y'all to be hella confused. But I also didn't want anyone walking in blindly in case they're extra sensitive to that kind of stuff. So, read with caution and be safe out there, folks!
> 
> Thanks for reading! We can discuss more on my [tumblr](https://dochollidayed.tumblr.com/), if you'd like (or here in the comments). Also, this fic isn't beta'd and I wrote it in like a week so please excuse any dumbass mistakes.
> 
> Let's get this party started...

Blisters. Forget sunburn. Dean was headed straight for blisters.

The bleached driveway was blinding white as it baked in the sun, its concrete almost acting like a mirror as the light bounced off of it to fry his flesh and retinas. It penetrated so deep, he thought he was cooked well-done down to the very bottom layer of his epidermis.

South Florida in the summer felt like stepping inside of someone’s mouth. Humidity saturated the air. It coiled around his limbs and constricted like a python choking its dinner. He’d been outside for two minutes and he’d already shed his overshirt, which only created a new problem because—again, sunburn.

At least he wasn’t the only one suffering. Sam was sweating like a pig. His hair was sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck, and he’d already wiped the perspiration off his temples with the back of his hand three times.

Cas, on the other hand, was glowing, despite the fact that he was in jeans a flannel shirt. He’d probably just get tanner. Like he was damn Greek god or something.

They’d driven through the Florida-Alabama border about ten hours ago and turned south down I-95 towards the Keys. Sam had found them a case involving a dead wife and a husband who claims he was out deep-sea fishing at the time of the murder, despite evidence to the contrary. It’d seemed like something they should check out at the time; but now that they were there, Dean wouldn’t have blamed anyone for committing homicide. The heat was enough to drive anyone nuts.

“As you can see, it’s very secluded. Your closest neighbors are about a mile on either side. But not _too_ secluded. You’re a quick, ten-minute drive to the highway and not much further from civilization. You could probably walk to the Publix,” the perky realtor dressed in an all-white power suit and looking for all the world like it was a cool spring day was saying. She gestured back towards the house behind her with red-manicured nails.

“Wow, sounds like the best of both worlds,” Dean said, his tone probably the only dry thing for miles.

He glanced behind the realtor at the house. One story was set high up on stilts over the long grass of the swampland. Through the wooden legs, Dean could see a small backyard leading to an old wooden dock with an ancient airboat tied up to it. The water sat stagnant, lethargic, as reeds shivered whenever something unseen under the surface brushed against them. The mangrove trees on either side closed in on each other, creating a tunnel that blocked out the light. Dense foliage compacted the house on the sides, and there was nothing across the unlined street except for more trees and shallow wetlands.

The outside of the house was a weird muddy green, chipped painted on wood that was either old or waterlogged or both. There was a small section under the stilts that acted as a mudroom and a TV room. The rest of the house was on the upper lever. A kitchen and a dining room. A hallway with a tiny green bathroom and two bedrooms. They’d already taken the tour.

A wooden porch wrapped around the entire building, crooked steps on both the front and back sides of the house.

Ellen Dowling had been murdered, dragged out back and drowned two weeks ago.

“You can say that again!” the realtor agreed with impressive cheer.

“What’s the rent?” Sam asked, feigning interest.

The realtor looked down at her clipboard. “Seventeen-hundred a month, plus utilities. And, as you saw inside, it’s fully furnished.”

Dean inwardly groaned. He really didn’t know why they had to go through this whole song and dance just to waste some money. Sure, it was stolen money from credit fraud and hustling pool, but still. It was easier to break in at night than it was to make up some story about the three of them needing somewhere to stay as they conduct research at John Pennekamp. This was all such a waste, in his personal opinion.

“And is video surveillance necessary?” Cas asked, pointing back towards the house as he squinting in the white sunlight. It was the first thing he’d said during the entire tour, and the realtor seemed a little taken aback. She blinked her long eyelashes at him a couple times, and opened and closed her mouth.

Cas’ voice had that effect on people. Dean remembered the first time he’d heard it, too. Like the earth beneath his feet was speaking to him. Even now, after a long stretch of quiet, Cas’ voice washed over him like an electric pulse—so warm, it was chilling. Even after all these years.

Maybe even now, especially. Because he was fully aware just how much that voice was made for the bedroom.

“Oh,” the realtor said, recovering, as she cast a glance over her shoulder at the little round, white camera hidden in the corner wall under the porch. Its black eye was fixed on them. Dean had already clocked it, as well as the one facing the backyard. Sam had, too, but then both played dumb.

“That’s one of those Nest Cams,” she said, turning back towards them. Dean wet his lips with his tongue and realized he was staring at Cas’ profile before returning his attention back to the realtor. “The pervious renters set it up. They’re pretty common around here. You know—,” she leaned in, like she was letting them in on a conspiracy. “Gators.”

Cas thinned his lips and nodded sternly, as if she’d just told him the world’s biggest secret.

“Of course, if you sign the lease, the cameras will be yours. No one else will have access to the feeds.”

Yeah, unless they’re hacked, Dean thought. He didn’t trust those things.

“And the pervious renters,” Sam asked casually, “any chance we can talk to them before signing? Just so we can see how they liked living here.”

Again, she seemed a little wrong-footed. “Well,” she said, “I’m afraid that isn’t possible. I’m . . . This is a rental property, so I’m not obligated to disclose this, but one of the previous tenants died on the property.”

Dean pretended to blanch. “That’s terrible. How?”

“I’m told it was a domestic dispute,” the realtor informed them, suddenly somber. There was a beat, and she perked up a little, “But, I assure you, this neighborhood is perfectly safe! You’re in absolutely no danger whatsoever.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Sam dismissed with a smile. “Good thing we all get along, right?” He let out a chuckle, and the realtor followed along.

Dean pressed a tight smile to his face, and his eyes flickered over to Cas, who remained all but expressionless.

“So?” the realtor said. “Should we break out the champagne?”

The three of them shared a look, and Sam said, “We’ll take it.”

“Oh, wonderful!”

“Yeah, as long as there’s A/C,” Dean half-joked.

The realtor made eye contact with him, her smile dimming.

So, there was no air conditioning. Dean could deal with that. It wasn’t like they were actually going to live there. They’d be gone in a few days—a week, tops. He’d stayed in places with A/C before. Hell, he’d stayed in places without heat in the dead out winter. This was nothing.

He kept telling himself that as they signed the lease with their best fake identities, and Sam wrote a check to put down a deposit. The realtor told them she would get the paperwork processed, and they could move in as early as the next day.

When they parted, she waved them off before getting into her white Honda Accord parked on the street, and the rest of them made for the Impala parked right behind it. The sun was glinting in starbursts off the black metal and the leather seats were scorching. Dean was sure he’d develop skin cancer by the end of the week if he didn’t get some SPF 5,000 sunblock.

As he watched the realtor drive off, he turned to Sam in the passenger seat. “’Kay, so we crashing in Miami tonight? There’s this bar on South Beach I’ve been wanting to try.”

Sam was concentrating on the copy of the lease on his lap, brows pinched as he read it over. “Yeah, yeah,” he said absently. And then, “I was thinking, it’s still early. We should go interview the husband.”

The thought of putting on a suit and tie in this heat was almost unbearable. “Where is he?”

“Uh,” Sam looked up. “Dade Correctional. Figure we should get his side of the story.”

“Okay, but you saw the video from the Nest Cam from the night of the murder, right? It was him walking into the house?”

Sam nodded. “Definitely him.”

“No eye flares or anything?”

“Nope. But the clip released to the public was short, and it was in the driveway. You saw the camera facing the backyard, right? Where the victim was killed? I bet there’s footage the cops didn’t release. Once the realtor gives us access to the camera, I’ll be able to unlock the previous files and watch it. So, we’ll see. Until then . . .”

“We get suited up,” Dean finished for him, unhappy about it. He glanced into the rearview mirror at Cas in the backseat. Cas’ face was turned towards the house, squinting at it idly, like he was in some kind of trance.

“Hey, Cas, you awake back there?” Dean snapped.

Cas blinked, and faced forward to meet his eyes in the mirror. “Yes. I managed to sleep on the drive in, remember?”

“Yeah, you were snoozing like a baby.”

Angels don’t sleep, Dean reminded himself. It was just like the last time Cas’ powers drained. They were down to the last drops now. They had been for a few weeks—or, at least, that Dean had noticed. Before their return to Purgatory, he’d been avoiding Cas. After they got back, things were different, and he noticed it a lot more.

Like that one night a few days after they got back, and Cas got up from the library’s table to make himself a sandwich because, “I don’t know, Dean. I just want peanut butter. I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine. It’d only been downhill from there.

Sam cleared his throat not-so-subtly, but his attention was back on the contract. Dean took the hint and brought his eyes forward. He turned the engine on with a rumble that caused a bird to take flight from a nearby tree.

“Okay. Let’s get this over with so we can go eat some Cuban food,” he muttered, and put the Impala into drive.

///

“I’ve already answered these questions for a hundred different cops.”

About an hour later, Dean and Sam were sitting across the table from Thomas Dowling in a private room of the Dade County Correctional Facility in Homestead. Luckily, there was air conditioning.

While they interviewed him, Cas had been tasked with going through the personal items Dowling had on him when he arrived at the jail as he awaited trial.

“We understand that, Mr. Dowling,” Sam said in his best FBI voice. “But we’re federal agents, and we’re just trying to get to the bottom of what happened here.”

Dowling sighed and leaned back in his chair. He lifted his hand from the table and waved, as if telling them to go ahead. He didn’t look like a man with much hope that they could help him.

“Can you take us through the details of where you were on the day leading up to your wife’s murder?”

Dowling tensed slightly at the mention of it, but nodded once. “I left the house at about 11 AM and drove up to the marina. Rented a boat. Went out fishing. I came back in around nine, grabbed some dinner, and went home.”

“And what time did you arrive home?” Dean asked.

“Ten-thirty-ish.”

According to the clip Sam had seen, the camera placed Dowling back home at 9:47 PM.

“She wasn’t in the house when I got in, but her cell phone was. I went outside looking for her,” he said, eyes down on the table. “That’s when I found her.”

Dean and Sam shared a quick look before Sam asked, “Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”

“Yeah, maybe like a fishing buddy?” Dean added.

“I went out alone.” Of course, he did.

“But you gave your driver’s license to the employees at the marina?”

He shook his head. “I’ve gone out every Saturday for three years. They have my info on file. I pay a monthly membership.”

So, there was no record of him renting the boat. Great.

Still, people saw him. According to the police report, one of the morning employees vouched for him, and a cashier at the local Chinese take-out IDed his picture; but he still had plenty of time to get home and kill his wife between then and when the police arrived to pull her body out of the swamp at 10:38.

It was a loose alibi.

“We’re told you and your wife had a fight leading up to her death,” Dean tossed out, seeing where it landed.

Dowling shook his head, like he was regretting ever telling that to the cops—and, yeah, Dean had to say, it wasn’t the best move. “Yeah,” he admitted.

Dean raised his brows. “About?”

The vague image and shading of Dowling’s hands reflected on the metal table as he lifted them, and then dropped them again. “I dunno. I just—She wasn’t making sense. Or, she wasn’t at the time. I got home from work Friday night, and she was pissed at me. I tried to figure out what I did, but she said she didn’t trust me. She said she didn’t think I was _me_.”

So, Ellen Dowling had seen something. Both Dean and Sam stayed quiet, waiting for him continue. When he did, he said, “When I asked her what the hell that meant, she didn’t answer. She locked herself in our bedroom. I slept in the guest bed that night. Next morning, I got up and she was still in there. So, I left. I figured I’d give her the day to cool off. But then . . .”

Then, she died.

“And I understand you placed the call to police that night?” Sam asked, shifting gears. It was definitely weird. Most murders didn’t call the cops on themselves, but it could have also been a double bluff.

Dowling nodded. “Yeah. There’s no one else around. The neighbors are too far away to hear anything.” He shook his head, letting out a wry laugh. “Ellen said that was part of the house’s charm. That it was just the two of us.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and finger as if to stifle a headache. When he brought them back down, his eyes were bloodshot and watery.

“Look, I know what it looks like, but I didn’t kill Ellen. I loved her.” How many times had they heard that? Whether it was the truth or a lie—that was 50/50. But there was something in this guy’s eyes. He looked like he meant it. After so long being in this life, Dean knew how to change those 50/50 odds to 60/40.

“I don’t know who was on that video—and I don’t know what Ellen was talking about the night before, but it wasn’t me.”

He said, “We believe you, Mr. Dowling.” Next to him, Sam nodded.

Dowling sat up a little straighter, surprised. “Wait—you do?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “Just one more question. In the days leading up to your wife’s death, did you notice anything strange? Out of the ordinary in any way?”

Dowling’s eyes fell down to the table again, and he scanned it in thought. Maybe he was reinvigorated by their belief in him, but his voice was a little more urgent when he said, “Maybe. It was . . . That Nest Cam. The one that the cops got the footage from. Ellen made me install them a couple years ago. I personally never really liked them.”

Sam said, “Yeah, we’ve seen them.”

“Well, it kept giving me notifications on my phone that there was something out back. I mean, it did it all the time. Damn thing was always giving me notifications for no reason. But it was a little weird because, every night for about a week before she died, it gave me that notification at the same exact time. Like, you could set your watch by it.”

He looked up, pupils enlarged and eyes glinting. The skin on his forearms had raised with goosebumps, and Dean didn’t think it was the A/C.

“What was back there?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Dowling said with a shrug. “At first, I thought it was a gator or something. Like, maybe it had a feeding schedule. One night, I went out to the deck with a flashlight to check it out, but I didn’t see anything. There was nothing on the camera, either. Just the swamp.”

Sam’s brows were furrowed. “Did you tell Mrs. Dowling about this?”

Dowling sobered, his head hanging. “No. Like I said, it always used to notify me about everything. Most of the time, I ignored it. I didn’t really think too much of it.” He glanced up again. “Why, do you think . . .?”

Dean felt his brother’s eyes on him, but Dean kept his gaze forward on the victim. He didn’t really know what to think.

A few minutes later, they were walking out of the examination room, and a guard had come by the take Dowling back to his cell.

“So, what are we thinking?” Dean asked once they were in the clear. They walked down the hall in the direction of the check in area, and a little camera in the corner hummed as it swiveled to follow them.

Sam blew out his cheeks. “I dunno, Dean. There are about a hundred monsters that can’t be seen on camera. It could be anything.” Before they arrived, they’d all kind of agreed that they were up against a shifter. Dean still wasn’t ruling it out.

“Or it could be a bug,” he said, just to be the devil’s advocate.

“Maybe,” Sam allowed. “But you saw Dowling. He looked spooked, even if he didn’t know it. And that thing his wife said—about him not being him? It’s weird, man.”

Dean couldn’t argue with that. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see ‘til we get the footage tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you can say that again.”

There was a guard at the end of the hall near the exit doors, and he opened them up to let them through to the entrance room. Another bored-looking guard was sitting behind tempered glass at the booth. The room was small and dingy, and Dean could already feel the late afternoon heat swelling outside.

Cas was standing over by the exit, in the short entrance hallway that was lined with paneled mirrors on either side. As they approached, Dean’s eyes flickered from one side to the other as they reflected each other, causing a line of a thousand Castiels to stretch out for eternity.

“Hey,” he said when they got closer, pulling on his tie to loosen it against the temperature seeping in from the cracks in the door. “Find anything?”

“No,” Cas reported. “Everything was completely normal.”

Sam nodded, seeming disappointed but not surprised.

“What did Dowling say?”

“We’ll tell ya on the way,” Dean said, reaching his hand out to clap Cas on the shoulder. It was only until his hand was placed firmly on Cas that he realized how awkward the gesture was, even though he’d done it about a thousand times. Maybe he was just projecting. Or maybe it was the lingering tension between them, despite their best efforts.

He let his hand slip back down to his side and powered through.

“C’mon, let’s find a motel to crash in for the night.”

///

The next morning, Dean was re-packing duffel on his bed at the Motel 6 they stayed in at the ass-end of US-1 in Miami-Dade. The realtor had called a few minutes ago telling them to meet her at the house in an hour so she can hand off the keys. Sam was already ready, and was currently sipping a coffee at the little table in the corner of the room.

Cas was in the bathroom. Still. He’d been in there for like a year, and, Christ, he took longer in the morning than Sam, even without a drug store’s worth of hair care products. But Dean tried not to get frustrated, even though he kind of had to pee, because Cas was still pretty new to the whole shower routine. He was new to the _everything_ routine, actually, including the sleeping arrangements. Last night, he’d drawn the short straw and had to sleep on the cot, and Dean listened to him toss and turn in the darkness for half the night before Cas sat up with a huff, got out of bed, and fit himself under the covers next to Dean.

Dean had pretended to be asleep.

Since Purgatory—since Dean told him how he felt—things had been better between them. They were still a little strained, but things were getting back to normal. Whatever that was. Because _normal_ really wasn’t a word Dean would have ever used to describe his relationship with Cas. And it wasn’t like anything had changed since they got back, except for the fact that they were technically sleeping together; but Dean still didn’t know what was real, and Cas still kept his distance, like he didn’t totally forgive Dean for everything that had happened. And maybe that was fair.

But Dean hoped, eventually, things would even out. And they could be real. Happy, even. It was probably wishful thinking, just a silent prayer that no one was listening to anymore because the only guy who ever did could no longer hear him.

“Can you get him to hurry up? We’re gonna be late,” Sam said, knocking Dean out of his thoughts.

Dean lifted his head, annoyed. “What are you, cripple? You do it.”

Sam sighed and stood up. He tossed his empty coffee cup into the trash. “Cas, hurry up. We gotta go,” he called towards the bathroom door. There was no response from inside. As if that proved some kind of point, Sam shot Dean a look.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Alright, go to the car. We’ll be right out.” He fished into his pocket and pulled out his keys, tossing them to Sam. Sam caught them seamlessly, went to his bed to get his duffel, and started out of the room.

As soon as the door shut, the A/C unit under the window kicked on, sounding like a dying animal and sending a blast of rattling, cold air into the room. It made his skin prickle uncomfortably, but Dean knew he was really going to miss that later. He zipped up his bag and tossed it over his shoulder before walking to the bathroom door. He rapped on it with his knuckles.

“Cas, you alive in there?”

He heard the water from the sink running. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

Dean raised his brows, not really believing that. “You okay?”

There was a loud, world-weary sigh. “I’m fine, Dean. Go away.”

“Okay, but we really gotta get moving.” No answer. “Cas?” Not a peep.

Aggravated that he was being ignored, Dean burst through the door, and he saw Cas jump in surprise. Then, Cas gritted his teeth in pain. A spot of blood bloomed on his jaw where he’d been shaving. “ _Dean_!”

“Sorry,” Dean said, only feeling a little guilty. Cas still had some of his grace left. It wasn’t immediate anymore, but he still healed a lot quicker than a normal human. Even without his powers, the cut would be gone in a couple of days. It probably wasn’t even worth wasting the mojo on.

Cas shot him an annoyed glare. “I told you I was almost done.” He ripped off a piece of toilet paper and dabbed the cut, red staining white. It was still bleeding when he ran his razor under the faucet and turned off the water. He wiped his face with a towel.

“You gonna live?” Dean huffed.

“I might not.”

“Okay, Drama Queen. Let’s move.”

Cas tossed his razor into his toiletry bag and zipped it up. He squeezed past Dean in the doorway and went to his duffel on the cot. It wasn’t long before he was ready to go, but the cut on his jaw was still bleeding. A streak of red was oozing as slow as molasses down the side of his neck. He’d knicked himself worse than Dean had thought.

“Dude,” Dean lamented. He went into the bathroom and got another wad of toilet paper, and brought it over to Cas. He put it on the cut and applied pressure, just to get the bleeding to stop. His knuckles brushed Cas’ jaw, even if he didn’t mean them to.

Cas’ skin was a little chilly, and Dean wasn’t used to that just yet. He’d always been so warm. Not anymore. But, Dean figured, if you had a raging supernova inside of you and it died away, everything else would seem cold in comparison.

He glanced up, and found Cas staring back at him, something unbelievably tender in his gaze that made all Dean’s frustrations melt away. His lips buzzed with the urge to lean forward and kiss him, and he belatedly realized he was looking at Cas’ mouth.

“Thank you,” Cas said softly, jaw moving under Dean’s fingers as he did.

Dean swallowed and pulled away. “Yeah, no problem.” He tossed the wad of toilet paper in the trash. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

The A/C unit abruptly turned off, and Dean barely noticed. They walked outside into the blinding morning light.

///

The realtor had left about a half hour ago, once the keys were exchanged and everything was signed, sealed, and delivered. The three of them took their duffels and set them down on the floor in the kitchen, because first things were first.

Dean had put the Nest Cam app on his phone, and they hooked it up to the cameras outside. He made Cas run outside and wave at them just to make sure they were live; and, as much as he didn’t trust the cameras, he had to admit they were kind of awesome. He could even talk through them, and Cas could talk back, and Dean told him to do a strip tease, and Cas scowled.

After a while, Sam told them to stop playing around. He hooked Dean’s phone up to his laptop and started hacking into the old files on the cameras somehow. While he did, Dean went through the drawers in the kitchen, checking out where all the utensils, plates, and pots and pans were. He reorganized them so the kitchen cabinets made more sense, like they did back home. There wasn’t any food in the fridge. Meanwhile, Cas took his bag to one of the bedrooms to start unpacking.

It took about an hour, but Sam finally called them over with, “Okay, I think I got it.”

Dean leaned over Sam’s shoulder, one hand on the back of his chair and the other flat out on the dining room table. Cas was on the other side of Sam, hands in his jean pockets as he peered down at the screen.

“This is the footage that was released to the media of Dowling coming home,” Sam explained, and clicked on one of the thumbnails. It showed Dowling—or a guy who looked exactly like him—walking up the driveway and heading for the front porch stairs. It was a little longer than the clip they already had, but it didn’t give them much more info.

“No eye flares,” Dean pointed out. Sam scrubbed back and played it again just to make sure, but there was nothing.

“So, it isn’t a shapeshifer,” Cas said, halfway to a question.

Sam clicked through a few time-stamped files, and found the thumbnails facing the backyard. The swamp was glinting in the moonlight, everything steady and quiet. And then there was a grunt, and the sound of something clunking, like dragging a suitcase down a flight of stairs. Dowling came into view, and he was dragging Ellen by armpit, her ankles flopping to the side and head lolling as her legs lay useless. She appeared unconscious, but still alive. Dowling took her to the dock at the edge of the property, and then put her down. He stepped over her, and rolled her into the swamp. She stayed that way, facedown in the water.

Dowling brushed off his hands and stood there, watching her body, for a long time before turning around and walking back towards the house. Still no eye flares.

Ellen Dowling’s body just stayed there, bobbing in the night-black water, as if she were floating in an abyss.

“Jesus,” Sam muttered.

Dean said, “Any footage of him leaving the house?”

Sam clicked through, but there was nothing. On one thumbnail around 10:30 PM, there was footage of Dowling’s car pulling into the driveway. He got out—same clothes and everything—and collected his fishing gear from the trunk. He took the entrance on the lower level of the house. Sam clicked through some more files, and they saw his rushing out to the water, then the whirling lights of the police sirens and ambulance as they pulled up. They watched Ellen Dowling’s corpse taken from the water and rolled out in a body bag on a stretcher. They watched her husband being put into the back of a cop car.

“Okay. This doesn’t give us anything we don’t already know,” Dean griped.

“Yeah, maybe not,” said Sam. “Hang on, remember that Dowling said he kept getting those notifications for a week before his wife was killed?”

“Yeah?”

Sam didn’t answer. He scrolled back up, and found some footage around midnight a few days before the murder. They all watched it, Dean practically holding his breath, waiting for something to happen. Nothing. Sam clicked on a file from the next night. Same deal. He sighed.

Cas wandered away from the table, and stood by the window overlooking the swamp in the backyard. His transparent reflection on the glass stared back at him, almost nose to nose.

“Maybe it was just a glitch?” Dean offered as Sam continued to scroll. “Like, the cameras were malfunctioning or something. Are there timers on those things? Could be, he set one without knowing it.”

Sam shrugged, eyes moving back and forth in thought. “Maybe. I dunno. We could look into it.” He stood up, shoulders a little despondent, which Dean always hated to see. He folded up his laptop and tucked it under his armpit. “Okay, I’m gonna take my stuff downstairs and keep looking through these files. You and Cas wanna hit the books? See we what we’re up against?”

Dean would rather put a bullet in his chest, but that wasn’t the reason he was groaning at the moment. No way Sam was getting the lower level. That’s where the TV was, and a half-bath. There was way more privacy down there, and Dean was the oldest. “How come you get the TV?”

Sam threw up one hand in an aborted gesture. “I don’t care about the TV, Dean.” Dean almost said, _exactly_ , but then Sam continued, “And why do you want it so bad? I’m gonna be sleeping on a pull-out couch.”

“Then how come _you_ want it so bad?” Dean challenged.

Sam shot him a tight look. “Because I’d rather have back problems than have to listen to you sneak into Cas’ room at night.”

Dean’s jaw dropped, and the back of his neck heat up in embarrassment. He cast a flighty look towards the window, but Cas was gone. He was probably back in whatever bedroom he’d chosen for himself. He usually lost interest and took off whenever Dean and Sam bickered. For once, Dean was happy about that.

“Dude, come on. I’m not gonna—,” Dean started to defend, but Sam’s eyebrows were raised incredulously, because he was up before anyone else this morning and he’d definitely seen Cas asleep in Dean’s bed at the motel.

Sam lifted his fist in the space between them. Dean let out a breath. He knew how much was riding on the outcome of this, so he focused, squared himself up, and brought his own fist up.

He threw scissors. Sam threw rock. Damn, he really thought it’d work that time.

He groaned again, but fair was fair, even though Sam was a sore winner with that cocky smirk on his face. “Make sure you shut Cas’ door,” he said, and turned to pick up his duffel from the floor before jouncing downstairs. Dean stuck his tongue out at Sam behind his back.

He collected his own things and started towards the back of the house, rounding the corner to the hallway where the bedrooms were. His boots clunked on the wooden floors, creaking under his weight. And, for a split second, he thought he heard a board creak behind him. He looked around swiftly, already on high alert, but there was nothing. He blinked around, just to make sure, until the strange sensation that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up passed away.

He turned around again and made for the first door, where the master bedroom and the double-sized bed were located. He peered in, and found Cas unpacking his clothes in the dresser, his back turned. Dean wanted to groan again, because this just wasn’t fair.

“What is it, Dean?” Cas said, back still turned, and Dean hadn’t expected him to talk. He started a little.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“I always know when it’s you,” Cas said. He turned around and went back to his duffel on the bed to pull out more clothes. Dean tried not to blush, because what Cas just said was way too intense for normal people. “What is it?”

Recovering, he said, “Sam’s gonna check out some more of those videos. We should look through some lore, try to piece together what we have ‘til it fits.”

“Okay. I’m almost done here.” A pile of folded clothes in his hands, he went back to the open drawer of the dresser.

Dean nodded, even though Cas couldn’t see him, and walked down the rest of the hall to the door at the end. A much smaller bedroom sat at the back of the house, barebones with a twin-sized bed that Dean’s feet were definitely going to hang off of at night, a small dresser, and a nightstand. All the personal affects were taken down. A tiny window looked out at the trees on the side of the house, but that was it. There was almost no air circulation. It felt like a sweatbox inside.

Great.

Hours later, they were still sitting at the dining room table, a pile of books and a laptop on sleep mode spread out in front of them. Dean’s eyes were swimming at this point, and even though all the windows in the house were open, the air sat heavily around them. Most importantly, his stomach was growling. It was still light outside, but it was late—close to seven.

He sat back, and tossed his pen into the margins of the book he was reading. “Okay, break time. What d’you say we get some dinner?”

Cas had his cheek propped up on his hand as he stared down at his own tome. “I’m not hungry.”

Dean rolled his eyes. That was the thing about Cas’ fading grace: it was still a wildcard. He had just enough angel in him that he didn’t always need to eat, but then a few hours later he’d be ravenous. Dean had learned to make an extra helping and put it in the fridge at dinner. It was usually gone when he woke up the next day.

“You say that now,” Dean said, because even though Cas wasn’t hungry, he still needed to eat.

Cas brought his eyes up. “I’m not.”

“Then tag along anyway,” Dean said, not taking no for an answer. He stood up. “C’mon, it’ll be good to clear our heads for a while. I’ll go get Sam.”

Cas looked like he wanted to argue but figured it wasn’t worth it. He waved Dean off, and closed his book. Dean counted that as a victory.

///

They found an ocean-side shack on a boardwalk facing the Atlantic. Vendors were pedaling t-shirts, handmade seashell necklaces, and paintings of the sunset over the water from blankets and carts all around them. They were just close enough to a beach, with a full-on tiki bar selling daiquiris and pina coladas, that families of tourists in bathing suits and towels, carrying colorful folding chairs and blow up floats, wandered around them.

Dean ordered the three of them some fish tacos and beers, and brought them over to the edge of the dock, where Sam and Cas were watching the fishing boats coming in. Sam had his feet kicked over the edge of the side, one shoulder leaning up against a wooden post, as he scrolled through his phone. Cas was sitting cross-legged, elbows on his knees as he slouched in on himself and squinted outwards.

As Dean made for them, he passed a group of kids tossing bread into a school of hungry fish splashing in the water. Nearby, a pelican watched with rapt attention for a chance to swoop in for its dinner. The boardwalk was still a little slippery from the sun shower that had rolled in and out on their drive over, which was fine by Dean because the humidity had broken some. The stray clouds were dark over the ocean horizon. The setting sun was on their backs.

“Soup’s on,” Dean said, and both of them looked up to help with the paper plates and bottles Dean was juggling. He placed his food on the wood next to Cas before sitting down, bending one ankle under him and letting the other dangle towards the water. Some of the seagulls that had been hanging around the food shack had followed him over, and were wheeling above them as they squawked.

He ignored they way Cas was picking at the pico de gallo in the two tacos he didn’t ask for like he was disgusted by them, and he bit into one of his own, taking about half of the taco in one go. Sam put his phone away and took a bite, too. “So, I was thinking,” he said, mouth full, and took a moment to swallow. His voice was thick when he continued, “Tomorrow, we should interview some of the neighbors. I know there aren’t many, but maybe one of them knows something.”

“Yeah, but Dowling said it himself, all the houses are too far apart,” Dean began. “No one saw anything.”

Sam interjected, “No, I know. I’m not talking about the night of the murder. But maybe beforehand. I mean, if something really was stalking the house every night for a week, it’s possible someone spotted it. Plus, it’d be good to know what Dowling’s really like—in case this isn’t our kinda thing, after all.” He took another bite.

“I thought you agreed he was innocent,” Cas said between them, looking at Sam. His profile was lit up in red by the setting sun.

“I’m pretty sure he is. Can’t hurt to cover all our bases, though,” Sam answered. “Speaking of—you guys narrow down any possibilities?”

Dean chewed thoughtfully. The taco was pretty good—fresh. It’d probably been killed that morning. “I was thinking maybe a dark double,” he said after he swallowed. “Ya know, like a Jekyll and Hyde situation. Dowling’s alibi was pretty weak. Could be, he came back to the house and killed his wife without even knowing it. He just Hulked out.”

“Maybe. But he didn’t mention any lost time—on that night or any other night,” Sam pointed out.

“Mm. Good point.” Dean picked up his second taco.

“Demon?”

It was Cas who answered. His food was still uneaten, but he had taken a sip of his beer. “I didn’t detect any signs of demonic possession.”

Briefly, Dean recalled the footsteps he’d heard behind him. He decided not to mention it. They’d only been a step out of sync with his own. It was probably just an echo.

“Or sulfur,” Cas said.

“Yeah, and in this heat, we’d be able to smell it no problem,” Dean added.

Sam let out a breath of dry laughter. “Looks like we really need to chase all the leads we can get.”

“That requires speaking to people,” Cas said.

“Bingo,” Dean said, nudging Cas’ shoulder. “Hazards of the job. You gonna eat that?”

Cas let out a sigh and shoved his food towards Dean. He’d probably regret it later, but the tacos _were_ pretty good.

Something splashed loudly towards the edge of the boardwalk, and a child started crying. Dean looked over, just in time to see a mother run over to sooth the crocodile tears. In the water beneath them, the school of fish had grown into a larger mass, constantly moving. Their bodies, each identical to the others, writhed and slipped against each other as they jumped up, mouths open to pointed teeth, to catch a morsel.

Dean watched the mother guide her child away from the edge.

///

The drier air didn’t last long, or maybe it was just the fact that the house packed it in like an oven. Night had fallen hours ago, leaving the back bedroom and long hall of the house nearly pitch black. Dean tossed and turned for a long time before giving up. It was too hot to breathe, let alone sleep. He got up and made for the bathroom, the warped floorboards groaning under him as he moved.

He blinked into the sudden light, even if it was barely enough to combat the shadows, as he flipped the bathroom switch. Hoping it would help, he bent over the sink and splashed some cool water on his face, and rubbed it on the back of his neck. It didn’t help at all. It warmed up the second it hit his skin, and only served to make him feel worse. It was like living in a puddle.

Blindly, he reached over to the rack and ripped off the hand towel to pat his face dry. When he stood back up, his reflection stared back at him—all sweat-flattened hair and ashen skin in the green light over the mirror. He kept the towel with him as he retreated back into his room, passing it under his armpits just to feel a little less murky.

Cas’ door was closed, and Dean paused outside of it momentarily. Just hovering. He realized his hand hanging at his side had formed a light fist, ready to knock. He unclenched it and shook the thought away. His feet stuck to the floor with each step as he kept moving.

He left his door open halfway, hoping it would help with the airflow, and stripped his twin-sized bed of the coverlet. The day had left his eyes stinging with exhaustion, and an ice pick headache was poking at his temple, but the sticky heat made him feel wide awake. No harm trying to sleep. He was settling in bed when, across the room, his phone chirped with a notification sound he’d never heard before. The bright blue light lit up the bare wall over the dresser, casting muddy shadows in the far corner of the room.

Dean stared at it until the light faded, and then went off entirely, wondering what the hell that noise was about.

Yawning, he got back out of bed and paced towards the dresser, snatching the phone off the top. A notification banner from the Nest Cam was across the screen.

_Activity detected in backyard_

Dean gritted his teeth, the hairs on the back of his neck picking up as his body readied itself for a fight. His eyes flickered up to the time, and it was just after midnight. He remembered what Dowling had said about the notifications he received before his wife’s murder.

There was a small thumbnail picture on the notification, but all he could see was darkness. He clicked it open to the live feed of the camera facing the swamp. There was a figure on the dock, a black mass in the shape of a person. His stomach dropped.

And then he realized he knew that shape. The long legs and the square build of the shoulders. The slumped posture. Cas. It was Cas. Dean hadn’t even heard him leave the house.

He stood there frozen for a few long seconds, just watching Cas standing on the dock, looking out at the mangroves, the airboat bobbing sluggishly nearby. He should probably just leave Cas alone. It wasn’t like it was a crime to be outside this late at night.

But, fuck, it was stifling, and maybe it would be a little cooler outside.

Dean put down his phone and pulled on his boots, sockless, not bothering to slip into his jeans first. He trudged down the stairs, in his ratty undershirt and boxers, and headed out onto the deck. There was no breeze, but the air was a little less claustrophobic. He could hear the clunking, churning of the water amongst the constant chittering of the frog calls.

Cas was still a shadow on the dock, his form a black mass against the water.

The wooden steps leading down to the patio wobbled and creaked under his weight as he descended them, and he could already feel beads of sweat pooling on his lower back. Maybe this was a bad idea.

The walkway from the patio to the dock was a strip of cakey mud, dead weeds and brown grass tangling underfoot as he kicked past them. The overgrown grass tilted in on either side to brush against his shins like ghostly fingertips.

He kept his eyes forward, on Cas, who remained perfectly still, staring out at the swamp, arms hanging motionlessly at his sides. He didn’t even appear to notice Dean was behind him.

When he got closer, Dean wanted to call his name, but something stopped him. He halted where the dirt met the wooden slabs of the dock, his boots toeing at the edge. He watched Cas’ shoulders rise and fall with steady breaths. In the distance, something splashed. Probably a crocodile drowning its prey.

Dean realized his heart rate had kicked up. A bead of sweat trickled down his spine, dead center of his shoulder blades, like someone thumbing at his back. He had the weirdest thought that he should have knocked on Cas’ door when he had the chance, because maybe he’d find him inside.

“How long are you going to stand there?” Cas asked suddenly without turning around.

Dean jumped, and then settled. He flushed, half with embarrassment at being caught and half because he was being an idiot. It was Cas, not the boogeyman. He shook off whatever the hell had stolen over him and stepped onto the dock. “Could ask you the same thing, buddy-boy.”

When he came level with Cas, Cas turned his head halfway towards him, just enough to show the profile of his nose in the darkness. Cas only regarded him for a couple of seconds before squinting back at the swamp. “Until I’m tired,” he sighed. He sounded halfway there already.

Dean sucked in a breath of sticky air. “Still having trouble sleeping?”

“I was never very good at it the first time I was human,” Cas told him. “I can’t imagine why this time would be any different.”

Dean nodded. He didn’t point out that Cas wasn’t human. Not yet, anyway; not fully. Maybe Cas was just preparing himself for the inevitable.

In any case, “Yeah, I noticed.” He thought he’d gotten used to the sounds of Cas moving around the bunker after hours. There were his footfalls as he moved down the hall towards the library, or the low murmur of the TV from the other room as he watched a movie, the occasional sigh coming through the vents that connected his bedroom to Dean’s as he sat up and read a book.

All those things were normal. Dean learned how to sleep through them long ago. They were the sounds of home.

But then Cas’ mojo started draining, and all those sounds became so _loud_. At first, Dean thought Cas was just being stubborn. But, after a couple weeks of it, he realized Cas was an insomniac. It made him a zombie some days, and he would fall asleep in the most random, inopportune places—in the Impala’s backseat, at the kitchen table, on a witness’ couch during an interview, on a book when he and Sam were doing research. On Dean’s shoulder when they were watching TV, which wasn’t so bad, actually. But still. The dude needed to learn how to sleep at night, not any time but.

“I was once told to count sheep, but I still have no idea who has sheep on hand.” Cas considered, “Maybe the man grew up on a farm.”

Dean chuckled, and shook his head down at the dock. It probably wasn’t worth telling Cas that it was just an expression. It was a dumb one, anyway.

He yawned widely, his words getting swallowed up as he agreed, “Yeah, maybe.”

When he opened his eyes again, Cas was staring right at him. It was a little jarring, to have him facing one way, and then blinking to find those intense eyes looking right at him. Dean tried to right himself.

“You’re tired.”

Dean huffed. He probably couldn’t sleep if he tried. “It’s too damn hot to sleep.”

Cas was looking at him funny, like he didn’t understand how one thing influenced the other.

“Tell you what though,” Dean told him, “standing around in one spot won’t do either of us any good. We need to tire ourselves out.”

There was a moment then, a half-beat where that hung in the air, and Cas’ eyes opened just a little wider. He turned fully to face Dean, standing just a little too close. Dean felt like he had a rock in his throat.

“What do you suggest?”

The back of Dean’s neck heated up even more, and he felt a mosquito sink its teeth into the flesh there. He swatted it with his hand, and rubbed at it a little timidly but hoped he played it off well. About a hundred different scenarios flooded his imagination on how they could tire each other out, but he was still getting used to knowing he could have that.

There was no way in hell he knew how to ask for it.

“Maybe we could take a walk?” he said instead, and let his hand drop. He dared to glance up, wincing a little as he met Cas’ eyes, because he was the most obvious bastard in the world.

Thankfully, though, Cas was the most oblivious bastard.

“You aren’t wearing any pants,” Cas pointed out.

Good point, but there was no going back now. “Yeah, but it’s like, midnight. Don’t think we’ll run into anybody.”

Cas thinned his lips and nodded curtly. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They turned back towards the house, boots thudding against the loose planks of the dock, and then silent with the soft underfoot of the dirt path. When they walked under the stilts of the house, Dean casted a look at the lower level. The lights were off, the window covered with shades, the inside a black hole beyond. Sam was probably asleep already.

His gaze flickered to the dead eye of the camera near the corner of the house, and he instinctively ducked his head to hide his face. Inside, his phone was probably buzzing with a notification as they walked past the camera, and there was no one on the other side to see them. Avoiding cameras was just a wary habit after so many run-ins with the law in his life.

He let Cas lead when they got to the sun-bleached asphalt of the street and turned in the opposite direction to where the road eventually met the highway. Staggered streetlights dropped small pools of orange light on the spider-web cracked tar beneath, and moths were beating their milky white bodies against the bulbs. Occasionally, one got zapped, and Dean crushed the wings under his boot as he walked.

They ambled together in silence, shoulders sometimes brushing. Dean kept his eyes anywhere but Cas, but really, he was constantly looking at him in his peripherals. His mind was abuzz with topics of conversation—the case, the house, the heat, the search for Chuck. All of them bottlenecked in his throat, causing a thickening pressure. It used to be so easy to be with Cas and not say a damn thing. It used to be comfortable.

Dean didn’t know how to get back to that point.

He tried, anyway. “So, uh. How’s that double mattress treating you?”

Cas was quiet for another second. And then, “I haven’t slept in it yet.”

“Right.”

Dean looked down at his boots. Behind him, their shadows stretched long as they walked under a light. The silhouettes circled them in an arc before walking ahead of them, and then bleeding back into the darkness.

On either side of them, the road crumbled off jaggedly into the brush. Through the thick trees, Dean could see a yellow light on in a window of a cabin. There weren’t any other houses beyond that point, and he wondered what the hell this road led to.

Sweat was pooling, thick and greasy, under his arms, on the small of his back, in the bends of his elbows and knees. Every now and again, something small and sharp would sting him, and leave a dull itch. He wasn’t sure if it was just perspiration or if he was getting eaten alive. Probably both.

He glanced over at Cas out of the corner of his eye again, and something fluttered in his gut, begging him not to start the conversation he knew they desperately needed to have. It wouldn’t end well. Of course, there was a chance it would end _great_ —for normal people. Not for them.

“You know, we haven’t really talked since—you know, we got back from Purgatory.” He let out a deflating breath, because he was an idiot.

Cas had stiffened somewhat. “We’ve spoken every day. In fact, we’re talking right n—.”

“No, dumbass. I mean, _talk_ talk.”

“I don’t follow.”

That headache was full-blown now. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Cas . . . I’m trying to have a conversation here. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“It was.” Cas looked down at his feet as they continued to walk. Softer, he admitted, “It is. But I don’t know what there is to say.”

 _A lot_ , Dean wanted to tell him. He wished he were wearing pants, because he had nothing to do with his hands and he wanted to put them into his pockets. He folded his arms and shoved his hands into his armpits. “Well, I mean. You know now, right? How I . . . You know.” He couldn’t say _feel about you_. “What I’ve been thinking.”

Cas breathed out through his nose and bent his head back to stare up at the stars. They passed through a streetlamp, and it lit his skin up. Dean saw the scab where he’d cut himself shaving that morning. “Yes, Dean. I know what you’re thinking _today_. Tomorrow could be different, or the next day. Or perhaps I’ll screw something up and you’ll think something else entirely.”

“Whoa, c’mon.” Dean stopped walking abruptly, and shot his hand out to grab Cas’ shoulder and spin him around, because that made him mad and he couldn’t stop himself. Cas let himself be turned, but he pulled himself out of Dean’s grip. As Dean’s arm fell back to his side, he wanted to accuse, _that’s not fair_ , or, _don’t put words in my mouth_. But he couldn’t say either.

He breathed, and tried again. “Look, I suck at this. And _you_ suck at this.” Cas’ brows popped. “But you got every right to be pissed at me. I just—.” He grunted.

“You just _what_ , Dean?” Cas challenged, growing impatient.

“I . . .” He shook his head and looked down, because it was easier to say this when he wasn’t looking at Cas. They’d ending up in the middle of two streetlamps, the opposing lights creating two shadows for each of them. One stretched out to the left from their feet, the other to the right. A crack in the road ran between them, the jagged line dividing into two separate ones like split hairs.

Dean almost told Cas to forget it—forget he said anything.

“I need—I want this to be real,” he said instead. “If there’s _one_ fucking thing—.” _Let it be this._

Maybe Cas realized what Dean meant by that. That he loved him. Maybe it wasn’t good enough. But, when Dean lifted his head to meet his eyes, Cas’ expression had softened. He believed they were real. Dean wished he shared that faith, but he couldn’t. Cas had always been his faith. It was tough, having that taken away.

Cas opened his mouth, and drew in a breath to speak. But then there was a rustling from the brush, and the tall grass twitched, and the shallow water splashed. A few small key deer jumped out and darted across the road. It’d made Dean’s pulse pound, and his body square up. But the deer disappeared on the other side of the street, and he breathed out to calm himself. They were gone too quickly to even count how many there were.

“Fuckin’ things,” he said, and faced forward again. The light above made the shadows play on Cas’ face, carving out what resembled a skull.

“We should turn back.”

Dean was tired, body weary and legs heavy in his boots. And he was so sick of the layer of sweat on his skin at all times. But he wanted to stay with Cas just for a little while longer. That was too hard to say, though, so he just nodded. The pair of them about-faced and started back towards the house. The light in the cabin through the trees had been turned off. Dean never found out where the road was leading. Maybe a dead end.

He was a little startled when Cas’ fingers brushed his own, as if testing the waters, and then Cas slipped their hands together. Dean’s palms were slick and probably gross, but Cas didn’t seem to mind. His hand was cold. Dean would either warm him up, or Cas would cool him down.

He looked ahead, and gave Cas’ fingers a little squeeze. Neither of them acknowledged it further.

///

Dean was probably only asleep for an hour. He wasn’t really sure what woke him up, but it pulled him slowly into consciousness like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake. Some kind of dread was awash over him, telling him not to open his eyes, to play dead. But he’d always tended to lean towards the fight option of fight or flight, so he tore his eyes open, and nearly attacked.

A figure was standing over his bed, completely overcome by shadow. It was standing perfectly still, and the only reaction it gave to Dean’s sharp inhale was, “Hello, Dean.”

It was a damn good thing, too, because Dean’s hand was on the knife under his pillow. He let out an explosive breath and let the adrenaline pumping through him fade away.

“Fuck, Cas! I almost shivved you.” he shouted. He rolled onto his back and ran his hand through his sweat-damp hair. He lifted himself up to a sitting position and looked at Cas, just to make sure it was really him. He blinked, hoping his eyes would adjust to the darkness. Cas’ features were no more visible now than they were a second ago, but the outline of him was a little more pronounced and familiar. He thought he’d be used to Cas watching him sleep, but it was still just as startling as ever. “What the hell are you doing? How many times—it’s fucking creepy!”

Cas didn’t respond.

He ran his palm down his face and settled down. Maybe Cas still couldn’t sleep. Maybe something was wrong. “You good?”

Cas tilted his head to the side. The movement looked foreign somehow, even though Dean had seen him do it a million times. It was too quick—choppy, almost—like watching a skipping film reel. It made Dean’s skin bump.

“I’m fine,” was the answer as Cas bent over and leaned in, moving slowly towards Dean. Dean blinked dumbly, not knowing if he should jerk away. He watched as Cas’ face came closer, the line of his nose and the outlines of his eyes coming into view. His lips.

Dean darted his tongue out to wet his mouth without meaning to.

Cas pressed their lips together, and for a second too long, he just stayed there, like he was waiting for Dean to reciprocate. Dean sat frozen still, and then his brain caught up to him. He kissed back, parting his lips. Cas followed his lead, kissing hungrily. Dean brought his hands up and spread his fingers on Cas’ jaw, his thumbs smoothing along the stubbled crest of his cheekbones.

Cas gave a possessive noise from deep in his throat. He flattened his palm on Dean’s chest and pushed him slowly down to the pillows. He chased after him, climbing on top of the bed and straddling Dean’s hips. The pads of Dean’s fingers sunk into the fleshy part of his cheeks to keep him from breaking away.

But that didn’t do much good when Cas kneaded the heel of his palm into the base of Dean’s dick through his boxers. Dean turned his head away, drinking in the dense heat. There was already sweat on his temples.

Cas licked the salt off his body, down the tendons of his neck and the lines of his collarbone. With his other hand, he dragged his blunt nails down Dean’s ribcage. Dean’s breath picked up, sharp and staggered, filling up the space. He arched his back into Cas’ touch as his dick twitched. He palmed up beneath the back of Cas’ t-shirt, along the knobs of his spine. Cas felt cold. Dean felt too hot. The hands on him made his body rock and shiver and nearly steam up in the contrast of temperature.

When Cas reached down the front of his boxers, Dean nearly jack-knifed off the bed. Cas worked him hard and fast, rubbing out a friction that almost burned. Dean tossed his head back, exposing his throat, and moaned. “Cas, fuck—.” Cas dipped down again and scraped his teeth along Dean’s neck. Dean felt like he was about to catch fire. He tilted his head down to capture Cas’ mouth, biting down on his lower lip. He put a hand on Cas’ neck and thumbed hard at his Adam’s apple. Cas grunted and started circling his hips on top of him.

Dean pulled at the elastic band of Cas’ boxers, and tugged them down enough to take out his cock. He jerked Cas once, eliciting another strangled sound that vibrated through his fingers. He pulled harder, his strokes just out of sync with Cas’ fist working him. He rolled his hips into it, and Cas did the same, moving fast and desperate as he fucked himself into Dean’s hand. His fingers were scrambling on Dean’s chest, and Dean hissed when his nails passed over his nipple. He moved his own hand from Cas’ neck to apply pressure to his hip, the bone of it jutting out, and Dean stroked it with his thumb and road the motions.

“Dean—oh my god.”

Dean thought he might pass out. His throat was dry and his chest was expanding rapidly, and every breath he drew in felt like drowning. He was an inferno inside and out. His orgasm punched through him, coiling every muscle in his body up so tight it hurt and then releasing at a dizzying pace. Cas let out a loud, growling sound before he came, his fist constricting around Dean’s sensitive cock as he spilled out.

Dean lungs burned as he came down. Every inch of him felt disgusting, like he was covered in paste. He was sticky and drenched and the come in his underwear and on his hand and stomach did nothing to help. And still, he chuckled. It almost hurt to do.

“Damn.”

Cas gave a wrecked, relieved “ah” sound, and his shoulders went slack. He stayed straddling Dean, the twin-sized bed too small for him to roll off. Dean watched his silhouette breath for a few long seconds.

With a grunt, he put his elbows under him and picked himself up to sit, chest to chest with Cas. His back stuck to the sheets at first before they were peeled away, and the relative coolness of the air was a balm on his skin for about a second before the heat rolled back in.

“Next time, we do this in your bed,” he said, and put his hands back on Cas’ hips. He pressed his lips to the corner of Cas’ mouth, but Cas didn’t respond. When he pulled back, he looked at the two black shadows where Cas’ eyes were. Cas stared back. The longer he did, the more Dean vision adjusted, and he could see his eyes shimmering a little in the darkness. He didn’t even appear to blink.

His eyes moved down Cas’ face, to the outline of his lips, and his neck. A Nest Cam nonfiction lit up Dean’s phone across the room, and he ignored it, but in what little light it provided, he saw a bruise blooming on Cas’ throat the size of Dean’s thumbprint. It sent a thrill through him. Cas was still watching him closely, and Dean had just enough time to meet his eyes before the light clicked off. There was something in his gaze—steady, so intense it was almost vacant.

Dean pinched his brow, not really knowing why his insides numbed under Cas’ stare. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas answered, voice like gravel. His face was so close, and he leaned forward only an inch to brush their noses together. His breath was coming out in warm, wet puffs against Dean’s cheeks. His skin was still cold. He said, “I just wanted to fuck you.”

Dean heated up even more at that, and he was happy it was so dark, because he was probably bright red. “Well, come back any time,” he joked. Cas didn’t laugh.

“I think I’m tired now.”

Dean nodded. “Okay. Good, that’s—I’m gonna go get us something to clean up, and we can go to sleep.”

Cas did nothing for half a second too long, and then he wordlessly picked himself up to his knees, their chests sliding together in the motion, and shuffled backwards on the bed. Dean bent his knees and kicked them over the side. “Be right back,” he said, and walked to the door. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing Cas sit back on his heels, before opening the door fully and heading for the bathroom.

His feet stuck to the floor as he walked down the narrow, dark hall. When he passed it, Cas’ door was closed, and he briefly wondered if they should move in there for the night so they wouldn’t have to sleep on top of each other. It was way too hot for that, even if the thought of falling asleep on Cas made him blush like a schoolgirl.

He winced as he flicked on the light of the bathroom, and it hummed with static as it came on. In the mirror, his reflection was drained of color, eyes sunken in the dim light as the bulb’s coils warmed up. He turned on the sink as cold as it could go and waited a few seconds before passing his hand under it. It was still warm, but he guessed that was the best he was going to get. He grabbed a washcloth from under the sink and dampened it, then stuck it down his boxers. He hissed at the contact, because the water was a lot colder on his dick than on his hand. He wiped down his stomach, too, and turned his nose up at the mess it was smearing around on his skin.

Wetting the cloth again for Cas, he left the bathroom and went back to his room. Cas wasn’t there. Dean glanced around for any sign of him, and briefly considered flipping on the light, but it was no use. The bed was empty but for rumpled sheets.

“Cas?” Dean asked dumbly, and got no response.

He tried not to be disappointed. Just to busy himself, he went over to his phone and looked at the notification he’d gotten earlier.

_Activity detected in backyard_

A key deer was taking a drink from the water. It didn’t do much to occupy Dean’s time.

So, Cas decided not to sleep in there tonight. So, what? It was too hot to cuddle up, anyway. He would have never fallen asleep out of discomfort. It was better this way. And it wasn’t like they were together, anyway. They were more like friends with benefits. He just didn’t know why Cas hadn’t waited to clean up, or at least to say goodnight. But he definitely _wasn’t_ disappointed. He just wasn’t expecting to find his bed empty, was all.

He hadn’t even heard Cas walk back to his bedroom.


	2. The Crocodile

Castiel hadn’t slept well. It was a miracle he’d slept at all, really. When he’d finally managed it, he dreamed of a shadow in the corner of his room, eager to reach out for him to drag him to nothing. Waiting. Always waiting.

He woke up to murky morning sunlight coming through the cracks in the thin linen curtains of the window overlooking the swamp. He’d somehow kicked his blanket off his legs in the night, and it was currently scrunched up between the end of the mattress and the bed frame. Beneath him, his sheets were damp with sweat, and he could feel it on his forehead. The world smelled brackish, decaying. Yesterday, he’d been immune to the climate. It was clear already this day would be different.

Yawning, he kicked his legs over the side of the bed and sat upright. The old t-shirt he’d borrowed from Dean to sleep in was rumbled, rucked up over his stomach. His boxers were wrinkled and loose around his thighs, the elastic band wearing out. He was still exhausted when he dragged himself to a stand, the floorboards groaning and warm beneath the soles of his feet. Distantly, the fragrant burning scent of coffee filtered into his senses. And that was the only thing he could think about.

That, and food. His stomach complained. He hadn’t eaten the night before, and he was regretting it now. His gut felt like an empty hole, deep and dark and gnawing.

When he opened his bedroom door, the air in the hallway was less compacted. It was only slightly cooler, only fractionally less humid. It was, however, some balm of relief on his skin. He heard someone puttering around the kitchen, and walked towards the sounds, towards the smell of coffee. He found Dean standing over the sink, in the process of opening the window behind it even wider than it already was. The curtains hanging on either side of it didn’t flutter with any kind of breeze, and the world remained soundless apart from the birdsong in the trees. Dean’s back was to him, shoulders tight, dark sweat staining his shirt on the small of his back, the wet marks forming a blotchy, misshapen pattern. His hair was glistening with perspiration, and Castiel could almost hear the complaints ready on his tongue.

“Good morning,” Castiel grumbled, and Dean looked around at him.

He grunted, and skipped pleasantries, as humans — especially the American kind — tended to do. “It’s fucking hot,” he complained. “I’m thinking of putting some damn ice in this shit.” He indicated the coffee boiling on the stove. They’d brought it from the bunker. Castiel’s throat was constricting with heat, and he had to admit the thought of any hot beverage was less than optimal, but he needed to wake up. And he needed something to eat.

“Is there food?”

Dean snorted and turned fully around. He walked to the stove and turned off the burner. “I wish.” He reached into a cabinet and pulled out two chipped mugs, and poured the coffee. “Hey, we should go to the store while Sam’s out. Get that over with.”

Castiel squinted, not understanding. “Where’s Sam?”

“Went for a run.” Dean picked up both mugs by the handle. Steam rose from inside. “How anyone would wanna exercise in this, you got me.” He paced over to Castiel, his feet audibly sticking to the floor, and offered him a mug. Castiel took it from the side, and regretted it. It wasn’t scalding, but it was hot enough to be uncomfortable. He quickly shifted it to his other hand to hold it by the handle.

Dean’s eyes flickered between him and the mug, but he didn’t say anything, blessedly. His eyes lingered on Castiel’s throat, and he pinched his brows together, forehead lining. Castiel almost leaned away when Dean reached up and thumbed at his neck, then over his jaw. His fingertips were hot from the coffee, but Castiel didn’t want him to draw away. “Looks like you’re still healing freakishly fast, huh?” he asked, and let his hand drop.

It was too early to be this confused. Castiel reached up to his face self-consciously and ran his hand over his jaw, skin scratching against the prickling stubble. He couldn’t feel the scab where he’d cut himself the previous day. It must have healed already. “Oh,” he said dumbly. “Yeah.” At the very least, there was that.

Dean’s eyes shifted downward to the floor, and he stepped back. And suddenly, Castiel was a little colder than before, but it didn’t last long. “So, uh. You up for the store?”

He was acting strange. Maybe it was because of the previous night. Castiel only nodded, powering through. He lifted his mug to his mouth and took a pull, careful to be slow about it so he wouldn’t burn his tongue.

“Cool,” Dean said. “I’ll go put some pants on.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned around and rounded the corner into the hall. Castiel heard the floor creak as he walked towards his room, taking his coffee with him.

///

The parking lot of the Publix was mostly empty when they arrived, just a few cars and a busted truck with a mess of rusted poles hanging off the flatbed. Ahead, the long, pink-painted strip mall was full of dark window after dark window, all with  _ for rent _ signs advertised in the glass. The grocery store was the only thing that remained open. An old woman was hunched over a shopping cart of paper bags on her way to her car. Dean parked towards the back of the lot, far from any others, and cast a glance at Castiel as if to tell him they should get going. 

Castiel pushed open the passenger door with a whine and got out, his knees popping as he stood to full height. He glared down at them in his jeans, frowning. He still wasn’t used to it, feeling the aches and pains of this human body. Jimmy Novak would have been in his mid-forties by now. Castiel was much older. This was the first time he truly felt it. Dean had once called it a “mid-life crisis.” He wondered what life he was in the middle of, and he wondered if it, relatively, it would be considered the end instead. 

He felt a feather-light touch on his elbow, and started slightly by quickly looking over his shoulder. Dean’s brows were raised, wrinkling his forehead, as he said, “You okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“‘K,” Dean said, as if he didn’t believe it but was willing to overlook it, for which Castiel was grateful. He started towards the building, and Castiel trailed after him. 

On their way, they passed the old woman at a distance. A squeaky wheel on her cart screamed as she shuffled onwards. Slowly, she raised her head, revealing papery skin and liver spots. Castiel realized he was staring, and quickly corrected himself. 

Dean grabbed a cart near the entrance, and a blast of cold, dry air overtook them the moment the doors slid open. Castiel took in a deep breath of relief, reveling in the chill, despite the way it made the sweat lining his hairline prickle. 

“Thank fuck,” he heard Dean sigh out. He let his eyes slip closed and tilted his head upwards. A moment later, he shook his head and started walking again. “Alright, what d’we need . . .” His voice trailed off as he pushed the cart with one hand and reached into his jean pocket with the other to take out the crumpled shopping list. He sounded more like he was speaking to himself, so Castiel kept quiet. 

Truthfully, he didn’t know why it was necessary he accompany Dean on this excursion. Food wasn’t necessarily his forte, and his only contribution as he trailed Dean down the aisles was adding a jar of peanut butter to the cart. It wasn’t as if grocery stores were new to him. Back home, Dean tended to like company for the errand, and usually dragged Castiel along. Or, he used to—before. 

Regardless, the sight of the food was beginning to make his mouth water. His stomach felt hollow. As much as the air conditioning provided relief, he was eager to get back home so they could eat. 

Currently, however, they were standing in the refrigerated meats section, and Dean was weighing two packages of ground beef in either hand, lips puckered as he inspected them both. One of them dripped red from the corner of the package, the watery blood sliding along the edge of Dean’s thumb and rounding his wrist. He didn’t seem to notice. Castiel watched its slow progression down the white, freckled skin of his arm. It stopped at the rolled fabric of his sleeve at the elbow, blooming on the cotton. 

Castiel blinked away. He squinted down the aisle. Another old woman was pushing a cart towards them, and for a moment, Castiel thought it was the same woman as before. She glanced up, breaking the illusion, and he averted his eyes as she turned into the baking section. 

Dean tossed a package into the cart, making the steel rattle. “Shit,” he said, consulting the list. “We need some half and half.” 

Castiel looked back at him. “What?” 

Dean huffed, like he was annoyed that Castiel wasn’t as present as he was during this shopping trip. “The half and half. Sam’ll throw a fit if he doesn’t have it for his coffee, but it’s back that way.” He nodded behind him, in the direction they’d come from. 

Castiel looked at the half gallon of milk amongst the products in their cart. “Can’t he just use that?” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Tell him that,” he grumbled. And then, “Can you double back and get it? I’m gonna head to produce.” 

Castiel really didn’t understand what the difference between milk and another cream based product was, but he guessed Sam and Dean knew better. He nodded. 

“Meet me there,” Dean said, and the cart rattled slightly as he pushed it forward. 

Castiel watched him retreat, the pale overhead lights washing out the color of his skin and clothes. His eyes flickered upwards, to a four-screen security monitor hanging from the ceiling. He watched the back of Dean’s head in one, and the side of his face in another. Two images of Castiel were looking back at him, staring unblinkingly with hunched shoulders. He turned away, both images just a step out of sync with the real thing. 

It took him longer than expected to find the half and half—and, when he finally did, he had to admit the sheer variety of it was overwhelming. Apart from the different brands, he wasn’t sure if Sam wanted half-fat or low-fat or reduced or lactose free. And what was the difference between half and half and heavy cream? 

This was ridiculous. He’d commanded armies for eons. He wouldn’t be defeated by coffee creamer. They were all identical, anyway. He blindly reached for one and turned back in the direction Dean had headed towards. 

As he moved, he glanced down the aisles in search of Dean. He said he’d be in produce, but Castiel found him in the condiments, his back turned. The green lights dulled his hair, and the breadth of his shoulders seemed slightly slouched. 

“Dean, I found it,” Castiel called to him as he approached. 

Dean didn’t appear to notice. Over his shoulder, Castiel saw him reading the label of a hot sauce bottle. 

“I didn’t know if you wanted—,” Castiel began, squinting down at the label for the first time, “low-fat or not.” 

Still nothing. 

Castiel let out a heavy breath, annoyed that Dean wasn’t answering. If he had to go back to pick out another brand, he’d rather not have to take more steps than necessary. “Dean,” Castiel said, louder, and reached out to grab Dean’s shoulder. 

Upon impact, Dean jumped, and wheeled around—and it wasn’t Dean at all. 

It was jarring, expecting to see the face he knew so well and finding another. The man was glaring at him, a hint of confusion in his eyes. Castiel realized he was blanching, but he couldn’t help it. It didn’t seem possible. He thought, maybe, if he blinked fast enough, the man’s features would rearrange into Dean’s. 

“I—I’m sorry, I thought—,” he stammered, backpedalling in the process. The emptiness in his gut felt sickly now. The man was supposed to be Dean. Castiel didn’t mistake other people for Dean. He knew him. He’d rebuilt that body with his grace. He’d know Dean anywhere. 

“I thought you were someone else,” he finished meekly. 

The man gave him a tight nod and brushed him off. He returned to his shopping. 

Castiel looked down at the carton of cream in his hand, staring dumbly for a few long moments. He wasn’t certain what to do suddenly. Where was Dean? 

He turned quickly, and rushed down the aisle, wanting his feet to carry him to wherever Dean was. He closed his eyes and focused, searching for the familiar resonation of his soul in the ether. He felt nothing. 

And then, at the mouth of the aisle, something hard barreled into his hip and rolled over his foot. He grunted out in pain, and his eyes flew open. He should have been angrier, but, “Dean.” 

“Fuck, Cas, watch where you’re going,” Dean barked, even though he’d been the one to ram the cart into Castiel. He dropped his shoulders. “What took so long, anyway? I was on my way to rescue you.” 

Castiel blinked at him, half-relieved. He glanced over his shoulder, but the other man was gone. He then looked down at the cream, and lifted it lamely. “I—.” 

“Hey, you okay?” Dean asked, brow suddenly pinched and tone concerned. 

“I’m fine,” Castiel answered automatically, and tried to make it true. He didn’t know why this experience had shaken him so much. He narrowed his eyes at Dean, just to make sure it was really him. 

Dean shot him a funny look. “Okay, weird-o,” he said in an attempt to lighten the moment. “I think we’re done. So, come on, let’s pay and head back.” He groaned as he started moving again. “Back into the fuckin’ heat.” 

Castiel realized he was still holding the carton of cream. He glanced down at it before bringing his eyes back up to Dean’s shoulder—drinking in the tense set of them, tracing his body with his eyes, committing it to memory. 

He reminded himself that he and Dean were bonded whether he had his grace or not. Lately, that bond had been severed. But they were rebuilding it. They could rebuild it. 

And yet, Castiel had never felt the gaping maw between them as distinctly as he did now. 

When they got back to the house, Dean took as many bags of groceries as he could in one trip, many of them hanging from his elbows to his wrists, the plastic handles stretching dangerously. Castiel grabbed the rest in both fists, but he’d underestimated their weight and had to set some back down in the open trunk. It was strange, not being able to carry something as simple as groceries.

He and Dean went through the downstairs and walked up the interior staircase, and Dean griped the entire time about how it was already too hot for the morning. He was out of breath by the time they reached the top of the flight, and Castiel felt a burning in his lungs as well. He tried to hide it.

The bathroom door was closed, and he heard the shower water running, which meant Sam had returned. Dean began unpacking the groceries from the bag and asked, “Think you can manage getting the rest of them?”

There were still quite a few bags left, and Castiel’s gut turned at the thought of carrying them all up the stairs at once, but the question made him bristle indignantly. “Of course, I can.”

Dean lifted his eyes, but must have known he hit a nerve, because he didn’t say anything. Castiel almost regretted snapping at him, but Dean should know better than asking such questions. Or forcing him to eat when he didn’t want to. Or bothering him when he couldn’t sleep. Castiel wasn’t an infant, and he certainly didn’t need to be rescued.

He hustled back down the stairs and didn’t bother to close the door leading to the driveway beneath the house. He walked out into the sunlight, his eyes stinging in the way it was bouncing off the white concrete, and made for the Impala’s trunk. He leaned over, grabbing the stray bags that had toppled over and were spilling their contents as the thin plastic rustled in the movements. He collected them in both hands and shut the trunk with his elbow, and nearly dropped them all in shock when he wheeled around.

Dean was standing there. Castiel hadn’t even heard him approach.

He realized he let out a breath of relief. “Dean, you—.” He stopped himself from saying,  _ scared me _ . It didn’t matter if Castiel hadn’t sensed him there, just like the incident in the grocery store didn’t matter. It had been a mistake, nothing more. As for now, Dean probably hadn’t meant to sneak up on him. He’d probably finished unpacking the groceries and came down to help with the rest of the bags.

“Here,” Castiel said, raising one laden arm. It was difficult to do. Dean didn’t move to relieve him. He stayed still, face blank like he hadn’t heard what Castiel had said. Castiel pinched his brows. “Dean? What is it?”

Slowly, Dean lifted his hand, but he didn’t take the bags from Castiel. He reached up and gripped Castiel’s shoulder, the pads of his fingers digging into Castiel’s shirt. It made Castiel’s heart quicken, but not in the way in normally did. Despite the heat, something cold touched Castiel’s skin.

“Dean, stop,” he said, and tried to pull away. He couldn’t, which was ridiculous. He was stronger than Dean, he always had been. He was stronger than any human. Even if he often let Dean grab on to him, halt him, turn him around—that was only because Castiel allowed it. Because it was  _ Dean. _ But now that strength was gone, and he didn’t know whether or not his body was weaker than Dean’s, but he couldn’t wriggle out of the hold he found himself trapped in.

“I said stop, Dean. Don’t make me ask again,” he repeated, baring his teeth. Dean’s fingers tightened on him, and he continued to stare forward, eyes dulled and almost unseeing. Castiel realized he hadn’t even blinked. Something was wrong.

He pulled himself hard out of Dean’s hold and stumbled backwards, his ass hitting the Impala. A can fell out of a bag and rolled under the car. Castiel realized he was breathing heavily. “Dean, what—!”

His words were cut short when a bare, closed-mouth smile lifted the corners of Dean’s mouth, and for a moment Castiel thought Dean had been intentionally trying to scare him. But the smile was all wrong. There was nothing of it in his eyes. Castiel blinked at him, not understanding. And then, Dean turned away and walked back towards the house. Castiel stood frozen, dumb, his head turning to follow Dean as he walked into the shadow under the deck and then into the open door of the house.

Suddenly, Castiel’s mind and body kicked back into gear. He called after Dean, and rushed for the house. He swung into open door, and slammed right into someone. A bag slipped out of his hold, and something glass inside shattered.

“Jesus, Cas!” Dean yelled. “Again? What the hell’s the matter with you?” He scooped down to pick up the fallen bag, and grunted slightly at whatever jar had broken. He picked up a watery shard.

Castiel just blinked at him. When Dean stood up again, he said, “You!”

Dean jerked his head back like he was offended. “Me? What did  _ I _ do?”

Castiel stared at him hard, his eyes searching Dean’s face, and he realized that Dean  _ was  _ playing a joke on him. It wasn’t funny at all, and Castiel wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The plastic handles on the shopping bags were digging into Castiel’s fingers and he wanted to put them down. He shoved past Dean into the house. “Get out of my way.”

Dean scoffed after him, and he heard him mutter, “Touchy, touchy.”

Castiel ignored him and walked up the stairs.

///

After breakfast, they suited up and walked to the nearest neighbor’s house to conduct interviews. There were only five houses on the street, and two of their occupants weren’t home. Another was an old man with weatherworn skin who only seemed to want to speak about fishing, and the interview proved useless because he admitted he’d never spoken to either of the Dowlings.

They doubled back to the house on the other side of the one they were renting, and Castiel pulled at his tie in the hope that it would help with the stifling heat. He was beginning to agree with Dean about the weather. He was sweating in places he didn’t even know were possible, and it felt like walking through thick stew.

The house they arrived at was set back a ways towards the swamp. Like their own, it was up on stilts, and was a two-story clapboard home of natural brown, blending in with the earth tones of the area. The wood seemed saturated and darkened with water, and the steps leading up to the front porch shifted and bent under their shoes as they trudged upwards.

For such a rustic home, the doorbell, Castiel noticed when they got to the front door, seemed modern. The black eye of a camera, much like the Nest Cams at their rental, was set into it over the push button. Neither Sam nor Dean looked at the recording device dead on, even when Sam rang the bell.

“Let’s hope these people have something to say,” Dean said, nodding up at the sky, dense and gray like old cotton. “Looks like a shower’s rolling in.”

It took a few seconds, but there was movement from inside, and the door opened up to a middle-aged brunette woman in a green skirt depicting a repeating pattern of palm trees. “Can I help you?” she asked, looking at each of them in turn.

“Mrs. Bradley?” Sam asked, having gotten the names of the neighbors somehow from the Internet.

“Yes?” She said it like she wasn’t sure, like maybe there was another Mrs. Bradley out there somewhere.

“I’m Agent Nash, these are my associates, Agents Young and Stills.” They all pulled out their fake badges from their pockets and flashed them at Mrs. Bradley. She blinked at them as if she couldn’t comprehend what was happening on her porch. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Thomas and Ellen Dowling. Is now a good time?”

“Oh,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “I heard about what happened. Awful. But—why do you want to talk to me? I didn’t see anything.”

“Of course, ma’am. But we’d like to speak with you anyway,” Dean told her. “We’re trying to get to the bottom of who killed Mrs. Dowling.”

Mrs. Bradley knitted her eyebrows together. “I thought her husband did it. There was that video on the news and—.”

“We just want to make sure we have the right man. Do you mind?”

She paused momentarily, seeming a little wary. Castiel had come across people with similar attitudes in secluded areas before. If he’d learned anything, it was that human beings liked their privacy, especially those who lived in such unpopulated parts of the country. “Sure thing,” she said politely, and stepped back, holding open the door for them as they walked into the entrance hall. It was lined with photographs, some of Mrs. Bradley, perhaps a few years younger, others of a man, and most of a young blonde girl.

She led them into the living room and offered them a seat on the couch. They squeezed in, Dean in the middle, pressed together from shoulder to thigh. Castiel was wedged between him and the armrest, and he could feel every time Dean shifted.

An elderly dog was laying on the rug nearby, and it picked its head up when they came in, watching them through blue and foggy cataracts like reflected like metal in the light. The hair on its snout and around its eyes had gone completely white.

“Can I get you anything? I just made some fresh squeezed orange juice?” Mrs. Bradley offered, again making it sound like a question.

Castiel was a little parched from the heat, and he was a little disappointed when Sam said, “No, ma’am. Thank you.”

“Okay.” She perched herself on the armchair across from them, and folded one leg over the other. When she settled, she clapped her hands together and said, “What do you want to know?”

“We’re trying to get an idea of what the Dowlings were like. Did it seem like they had a happy marriage?” Sam began. Castiel only listened. He’d been with the Winchesters for years, and still he was slightly uncomfortable with interrogating witnesses. Humans were so different than angels and demons, in that, with the latter species, Castiel was extremely more confident in his abilities.

As Sam spoke, the dog lumbered to its feet and shook out, the tags on its collar ringing as they clanged together. It walked over to the couch, and Castiel felt Dean’s body lock up next to him. The dog went right up to him, and placed its chin on Dean’s knee, staring up at him with big eyes, asking to be pet. Dean’s hands had curled into fists. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Sam briefly frown over at his brother in mild jealousy before returning his attention to the witness.

Mrs. Bradley lifted a shoulder. “I think so. I didn’t know them too well. Enough to say hello, I guess. I would bump into Ellen at the grocery store sometimes, or I would roll down the car window when I saw her jogging. That was it, really.” She finally must have noticed Dean’s discomfort, because she said, “Oh, don’t worry. She’s a sweetheart.”

Dean shot her a tight smile and a nod. He lifted his hand to quickly pat the dog’s head, and pushed it away as slowly and gently as he could without being obvious. The dog made a grunting sound and retreated back to its spot on the rug. “And what about Mr. Dowling?” Dean posed, powering through. “Did you know him at all?”

She shook her head, frowning. “No. My husband did. He’s at work now, but it probably doesn’t matter. He and Tom weren’t close. There was one time a few years ago when a baby croc wandered onto our property and Tom helped him capture it. The Dowlings had an airboat, and they went out together on the swamp to release the thing. After that, they’d wave to each other on the street but they weren’t friends.”

There was something else. Something she wasn’t saying. Her gaze was flighty, and she was trying to hard to meet their eyes. Sam must have noticed it, too, because he asked, “And that’s it? You didn’t have any other contact with them?”

Mrs. Bradley took in a breath. “Well,” she began, her head dipping to the side in thought. “There was this one thing. Now—I’m not really sure what it was. I always thought Tom was a nice man. Before. . . all this.”

“But?” Sam prompted.

“But,” she went on. “A few days before the murder, Tom was here.”

“Here?” Dean asked, brows shooting up. “In the house?”

“Outside,” was the answer. “I’d just gotten home from taking Sadie to the vet, and I looked out the window of my room. My daughter, Isabelle, was the only one home. She was out there, and so was Tom. And he . . . Well, he had his hand on her. Like this—.” She reached up to her own shoulder and gripped it. Castiel’s mouth went dry, something numb washing over him, like he was suspended under water. He glanced sidelong at Dean, but Dean didn’t react. He kept his attention on Mrs. Bradley.

She continued to speak. “And it looked like she was upset. She kept trying to get away. I went outside as quick as I could to help. But Tom left right away. We didn’t see him after that.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, and Sam redirected his attention back to Mrs. Bradley before asking, “What did he and your daughter discuss?”

“Nothing—I,” she shrugged again. “She didn’t say. Of course, I asked her what he wanted, but she said he only talked about taking his airboat out that day. That’s all.”

No. Something wasn’t right. Castiel felt it in the rock that had dropped in his gut. “Mrs. Bradley,” he asked, ignoring the way her eyes snapped to him in surprise. “May we speak to your daughter?”

“Oh, well . . .” She might have had some reservations, but she nodded in a circular motion. “Of course. If you think that’ll help, but she didn’t see anything, either.”

“Everything helps,” Dean told her, not questioning whatever Castiel intentions were. Castiel was grateful for that.

Mrs. Bradley pointed a lofty finger behind her, in the general direction of the backyard. “She’s just out back. You can go through the kitchen.”

Both Castiel and Dean stood up, and Sam remained seated. “I’d just like to ask a few more questions, if I may?” he asked as they walked towards the back of the house. Castiel heard Mrs. Bradley give him the go-ahead.

They past more hanging photographs of the blonde girl, Isabelle, most likely, before they got to the kitchen. Castiel followed Dean outside to the deck. The Bradley’s had a small, fenced in wooden dock on the swamp. Isabelle, probably college-aged, was sitting on the planks reading a book. She glanced up, confused, when Castiel and Dean got closer.

“Hello?” she asked.

“Isabelle Bradley?” Dean asked, and she nodded. “I’m Agent Young, and this is Agent Stills. We were just speaking to your mother inside about Thomas Dowling.”

Something passed over her face, paling her cheeks. “Oh.” She looked down at her book, a strand of hair falling out from where it was tucked behind her ear. She dog-eared the page and closed the book. “About the murder?” she asked, picking herself up from the dock and brushing off her jean shorts.

“Yes,” Castiel told her. “We understand you had an altercation with Thomas Dowling before the night of the murder.”

“I don’t know if  _ altercation _ is the right word,” she said, letting herself trail off.

“But you were scared,” Dean said. It was evident on her face. She thinned her lips, and nodded.

“Can you tell us what happened? As much as you can remember,” Castiel asked.

“Yeah,” she said, turning her head to look out at the swamp. “I was home alone one day—just got back for summer break a few weeks ago. Mom and Dad were out, and my sister had just left for her trip. I was out here—,” she indicated the dock. “Just reading. That’s when he came up to me. It was weird, because I didn’t even know he was there until he said hello. He said he tried the doorbell, but no one answered. I thought he was looking for my dad, so I told him he wasn’t home. But then.” Her mouth puckered and twisted as she paused. They gave her as much time as she needed before she went on. “He said he was looking for me.”

Castiel didn’t like the sound of that. “Why was he looking for you?”

“I dunno,” she said, her fingers picking at the cracked spine of her book. “He told me he’d seen me around the neighborhood, and that he thought I grew up pretty. I didn’t really know what to say to that, so I said thank you. But it made me uncomfortable.” She brushed the errant strand of hair back behind her ear and cleared her throat. It must have garnered her some confidence, because she looked up at them. “And then he just started talking about the swamp. He said nobody should be alone on the water, because it was dangerous. He said someone could get lost really easily out there and fall off the side of their boat. They could drown or get eaten by an alligator or something, and no one would ever know. And she said he was thinking about taking his airboat out that afternoon, and he asked me if I wanted to join him. I didn’t want to, but he practically begged me. I asked him to leave, but then he—he just grabbed my shoulder—.”

She put her hand up, clutched the bend of her own shoulder. Castiel realized his jaw was aching from grinding his teeth. He looked over at Dean again, and Dean was pressing his brows together as he listened to Isabelle.

“He didn’t let go, even though I wanted him to,” she said. “It didn’t hurt or anything, but I was telling him to stop, but it was like he wasn’t even listening. And then my mom must have gotten home because she came outside and asked if something was wrong. He let go of me and just—he gave her this  _ smile _ . And he said, ‘we’re fine.’ And then he just left.” When she breathed out, the air rattled slightly. “I didn’t see him again after that. Until I saw him on the news.”

Castiel stared at her, not knowing what to say. What to think. He wanted to look at Dean. Every instinct was telling him to look. But he was afraid, he realized. Afraid that, if he did look, Dean would be staring back at him with that little smile, those blank eyes. Why was he afraid? It was Dean. He knew Dean. He  _ knew _ him. He wasn’t mistaken this time. It was Dean.

“How many days was that before the murder?” Dean asked after a while.

“A week. A week exactly,” she said. “On a Saturday.”

Dean blinked as he lifted his chin, and Castiel felt his eyes on him. He asked, “And nothing like that had ever happened before?” She shook her head, and Dean accepted it. “Okay. Thanks for your time.”

“Sure.”

Castiel summoned enough bravado to look at Dean, even though his throat tightened when he did. Dean met his gaze, and nodded backward towards the house to signify they should go back. That was good. It was normal. Castiel was just tired.

They left Isabelle behind, and she plopped back down on the deck to read, her back to the house.

“So, what d’you think?” Dean whispered when they were far enough away.

Castiel’s mind was turning a mile a minute. “I think, whomever she saw, it wasn’t Thomas Dowling.”

“Nah, me either,” Dean agreed. “He told me and Sam he used to go fishing every Saturday. I mean, I guess he couldda been lying but . . . I dunno.”

“Yeah, me either,” Castiel admitted. He couldn’t shake the bundle of nerves in his gut, no matter how hard he tried. “And we’re certain it isn’t a shapeshifter?”

They got to the back stairs and started up them, and Dean let out a breath of laughter. “I’m not sure about  _ anything _ , dude.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and the back door from the kitchen opened up, halting them in shock. A blonde girl walked through. A blonde girl who looked exactly like Isabelle Bradley.

“Dean,” Castiel gasped, grabbing Dean’s elbow from the step behind him. Dean had gone still, anyway. They watched the girl, and she watched them back. After a second, she walked forward, unblinking, frowning, towards them on the steps. Castiel’s hand tightened around Dean’s arm, and his instinct was to pull Dean behind him, to use his own body as a shield to protect him.

But then Dean cleared his throat, and he shook out of Castiel’s grasp. He ascended the last step and stood to the side, his eyes still on the girl. Slowly, warily, Castiel followed him. The girl cast them one last look before walking down the stairs, boards creaking under her.

Castiel looked at Dean, not knowing what to do. Dean’s jaw loosened, and he shrugged. “Twins?”

Twins. That was a logical explanation. There were many photos of the blonde girl inside. Maybe they were of two different girls. And Isabelle had mentioned her sister. Castiel glanced over at Isabelle, still reading on the dock, and then to the other girl walking over to join her sister. He followed Dean back into the kitchen and through the house.

Sam was in the entrance hall again, a glass of OJ in his hand and his cell phone in the other. He looked up when Castiel and Dean got closer. “Anything?”

Castiel peered more closely at the framed photographs on the wall than he had before. He spotted a picture of two blonde girls when they were children, both of them smiling at the camera in their Sunday bests. Their resemblance wasn’t as obvious when they were young, as it was now.

“Maybe. You?” Dean said.

Sam let out a breath of laughter before draining his juice. “Something like that,” he said, but couldn’t explain further because Mrs. Bradley had appeared from the living room. She collected Sam’s glass, and they thanked her before heading out the door.

“Something like what?” Dean asked when they were descending the front stairs.

“I just got a text from Eileen,” Sam told them, brandishing his phone before pocketing it.

“The sexy kind?” Dean asked, voice full of mischief.

“Dude. No,” Sam said, annoyed. They got to the driveway and began walking back to the road. “She found a case in Mississippi and said she could use some help. We’re pretty close, so I told her—.”

Dean let out a loud groan. “Sam, we’re on a case  _ now _ !”

“I know that, Dean.” He shook his head, trying to tame his frustration. “But there’s three of us and one of her. You guys can handle this, can’t you?”

Castiel knew how important it was to Sam that no one hunt alone. Creating pairs and teams among the hunters from Apocalypse World had been his first priority. Castiel wouldn’t ask him to risk Eileen’s safety. If Sam stayed, his concern would preoccupy him. It was best for everyone if he left. “We can handle it. You go, Sam,” Castiel told him.

They both looked at Dean, because everyone knew Sam wouldn’t go without his brother’s blessing. Dean gave another annoyed sound, and tossed his head back. “ _ Fine _ , go! You are so whipped.”

They reached the road, and they went back in the direction of their rental.

“Shut up,” Castiel heard Sam say, and Dean responded with something snarky but he wasn’t paying attention anymore. He thought about Isabelle Bradley, and about Thomas Dowling—or the thing that was wearing his face. He thought about the man in the grocery store.

He turned his head towards the trees on the side of the road, squinting through them to catch glimpses of the swamp. In the distance, the water appeared black.

///

Castiel didn’t see the point of sleep. It was so much wasted time. But, at the moment, it was something he desperately,  _ desperately  _ longed for. And it eluded him. He lay in his bed, the room dark around him, listening to the tree frogs outside his open window. There was a screen on it, but somehow the mosquitos kept getting through. It was horrible. The blankets were around his ankles, and he was still lined with sweat; but he wanted to pull them over him because the bugs were feasting on his legs. He’d managed to smack two while they were still gorging on his blood, and their fat, flattened bodies left dots of arterial red behind on his skin. They would be itchy bumps come morning.

His eyelids drooped heavily, and he could feel the fuzzy delta waves creeping into the edges of his mind like a vignette film reel at the end of an old movie.  _ Fin _ . He and Dean had watched a silent movie once, but Dean didn’t like it. He said the actors looked too much like ghosts. Castiel pointed out that they were all likely dead by now, so they may be ghosts, after all.

Humans think of the strangest things between sleep and awake . . .

Every time he slipped under, he awoke again with a start. He didn’t like sleeping. It was too black, surrounding him, stretching on for eternity. It was too empty. Like death. He thought, because it was necessary, he could stomach it in small doses. Sometimes, those doses were harder to swallow than usual.

He grunted with frustration and got out of bed, hoping that he’d cool off without the mattress beneath his back. He went to the window and stared out over the swamp. Everything was still, the water dark in the night. His reflection was on the glass, as if someone with his face was standing on the other side, peering in. Beyond his room, the house was quiet. Dean and Sam had driven into town to find a car for Sam in the cover of darkness so he could meet Eileen. Castiel didn’t know how long ago they’d left, but he assumed Dean would return soon. Perhaps he should have gone with them. Perhaps, on the way home, without Sam there, they’d drive in silence, their hands resting on the seat between them, the sides of their fingers touching. Perhaps that would be too close to happiness. And what if it was? Castiel wasn’t certain where he’d be sent to after his death anymore.

He realized he’d been staring blankly, and refocused his eyes on his reflection, but when he did he was startled backwards. It was brief. Half a second — not even that. He thought he saw his reflection smiling at him, the corners of its mouth slanted upwards mildly, and eyes vacant. When he looked — really looked — it was gone. He ran his hands down his face and rubbed at his eyes. He was exhausted, and hot — probably hallucinating. He was graceless. Behind his closed eyes, the creature from the Empty wore his face, leering at him with a grin. He shook the memory away. If sleep eluded him, the least he could do was get some fresh air.

He left his room, walking through the shadows of the house to the back door. The splintered stairs of the deck were warm as he descended them, and the dirt path leading to the dock was soft and pliant under his bare feet. The airboat knocked lazily against the wooden posts, no barrier between them. Castiel went to the very edge of the dock, his toes hanging off the side. The water made gulping, gurgling sounds, both hungry and suffocating. He remained there for a long time, breathing in the muggy air. The weather seemed filled to the brim, about to boil over, but never quite doing so. He felt as if he were waiting for something. Always waiting.

Somewhere in the water, movement caught his eyes. It rippled, and two lumps moved slowly, steadily through it. Black eyes reflected in the moonlight. It lifted its head out from the depths, and he saw it was a crocodile. Not an alligator. There was once a time when he wouldn’t even have to guess, but now it was so hard to tell the difference between the two species. But there were, in fact, differences. The teeth still visible, even when the mouth was shut. The gerth. The length of the snout. If one looked closely enough, there were always differences. No too things were exactly the same.

Across the way, a herd of deer were moving through the trees, their bodies only shadows against the marsh. A fawn broke away and approached the water. It bent its wobbling legs and dipped its head for a drink. The nearby crocodile saw it, too, and began to close in. Briefly, Castiel considered making a noise to scare the deer away. But there were times, not often, that his millenia of taking orders proved it was still somewhere amongst his hardwiring. He remained quiet and unmoving, not interfering. Observant.

Anticipation welled up inside of him, starting in his toes and fingers, roiling in his gut, clogging his throat. The crocodile got close enough to strike. Its jaw closed around the lone fawn’s neck, teeth clamping down. The rest of the deer scattered, darting away, abandoning their companion. The fawn kicked out once, twice. It was slammed against the water, and went still. Its body was dragged under.


	3. The Twin

The first thing Dean did when he woke up the next morning was vow to go into town and buy a fan. The second thing he did was check his phone. He had a few Nest Cam notifications, but that was nothing new. There was a text from Sam saying he’d gotten to Eileen okay. Dean clicked on one of the Nest banners, bringing up the live feed of the backyard. He expected to find it empty, and was a little surprised to find Cas, still in his PJs, back to the camera, sitting cross-legged on the dock. He was slumping in on himself.

Dean sighed. Cas had been standing out there when he got home last night, and Dean figured he wouldn’t bother him. He went to sleep, and was woken up about an hour later to the sound of Cas’ bedroom door closing. About an hour after that, he was woken up again, but that time by the notification sound from the Nest Cam. When he looked at it, he saw Cas had gone back outside. Dean had grumbled, and then rolled over and went back to sleep. He thought Cas would come back in eventually.

Turned out, he was wrong.

He got up, showered, and made some coffee and a pot of grits on the stove; and he already felt like he needed another shower. He didn’t know why he bothered. By the time he was finished with his breakfast, Cas was still outside, and the extra helping he’d made was congealing in the bottom of the pot. He told himself it wasn’t his problem, and then scooped it into a bowl and brought it out to Cas, anyway.

Cas dipped his head a little when Dean approached, and it was the only indication he showed that he knew someone was behind him. “You been out here all night?” Dean asked when he was standing over him on the edge of the dock.

Cas looked up at him, squinting in the sun. “What?” he asked, distracted. He had dark bags under his eyes, and his hair was flat and matte, complexion pale. Dean considered the fact that he should have brought out some coffee, but that really wasn’t what Cas needed.

Dean pursed his lips. “Forget it. Hungry?” He reached down to offer the bowl. Cas lifted his arms and took it, and then set it down on his lap. He frowned into it instead of eating it. Dean sat down next to him, using his hands as support as he kicked his legs under him, and then brushed the dirt and splinters off his palms. He looked out at the water, having to wince in the onslaught of light. “Anything interesting?”

“I saw a crocodile last night,” Cas told him. Then, softer, “And a deer.”

“Fascinating.”

Cas scooped out some of the mush and ate it, taking a long time to chew as he set his spoon back in the bowl, the metal clanking against the sides. He looked about ready to keel over.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to sound casual as he said, “So, I was thinking today, we get back out there for more interviews. Maybe we can catch Mr. Bradley, see if there was anything funky on his airboat ride with Dowling. And there’s still that last house we never got to.” Cas didn’t answer. He played with his food, stirring the contents around like he was trying to bury something. Dean thought he might just be able to get away with suggesting, “I can take care of it myself, if you want. You can stick around here. Maybe take a nap.”

Cas looked up, eyebrows pinched. “Why would I do that?”

So much for the gentle approach. “Cas, you haven’t slept.”

“I’m fine, Dean,” Cas dismissed.

He tried to be political here, because he really wasn’t fishing for an argument. “Didn’t say you weren’t. But, dude, you some rest or else — .”

“I’m fine!” Cas snapped, effectively shutting him up. “Why, Dean? If you don’t want me to come—.”

Dean gritted his teeth, anger sweeping in. “I didn’t say that! Fuck me for not wanting you to get yourself killed if it comes to a monster fight — or get me killed. God, you have a short fuse these days.”

Cas’ eyes were downcast, his tone guilty as he said, “No, I’m — I didn’t mean . . . I’m just — .”

“Tired?” Dean barked.

Cas shot him an aggravated glare, but relented with a nod.

Dean told himself to calm down. It was hot. They were tired. They still had no idea what they were up against with this case. It was easy to take all of that out on each other. And Dean was really trying not to do that anymore. He said, “Okay. Then, how about you rest up and I do the leg-work today?”

Cas placed his bowl down on the wood in front of his crossed ankles, contents still uneaten. Dean tried to ignore the weariness that washed over him at that, because there was only so much he could do at any given moment to force Cas to take care of himself. Cas placed his hands loosely between his knees and stared down at them, his shoulders moving as he breathed. Softly, he said, “I wouldn’t be able to, anyway.”

It took all of Dean’s willpower to not roll his eyes. “Sure you could.”

“No,” Cas whispered. And then, barely raising his head, “I sleep better when you’re there.”

Dean’s lips parted, starstruck, the dead skin pulling in the humidity. For the briefest moment, he wanted to challenge that, to ask Cas why he left the other night if that was the case; but he decided better of it. He thought, maybe, that was Cas’ way of saying  _ I love you _ back.

Cas looked up, his eyes bloodshot and bluer than the cloudless sky overhead. For a minute, they just stared at each other, neither of them blinking. Dean reached up and brushed his knuckles against the hollow of Cas’ cheek, and stroked his thumb under Cas’ eye. His skin was clammy and chilled, like old wax. Dean kissed him, and Cas let him.

When they broke apart, Cas lifted the corners of his lips in a barely-there smile. They both looked back out at the swamp. After a second, Dean, feeling bold, reached into Cas’ lap and took one of his hands, knitting their fingers together. Cas gave him a gentle squeeze before relaxing, and Dean breathed out, releasing the tension in his shoulders.

His hand was probably sweaty and gross, but Cas didn’t complain. As for Dean, the heat didn’t feel so oppressive anymore. It was warm and comfortable, sleepy. They stayed and watched the dragonflies skimming across the blue-green water.

///

After a while, they went back inside, and Dean flipped through the channels before giving up and putting on some shitty soap opera. He wasn’t really focused on the TV, anyway, because Cas was leaning into him on the couch, head on Dean’s chest, and the even, shallow sounds of his breathing lulled Dean to sleep. They dozed for about an hour, and the late morning news was on by the time Dean slowly drifted back into consciousness.

They suited up and headed out of the house, turning in the direction of the Bradley’s house. They walked about a mile, the sun glare kicking off the worn out tar and causing heatwaves to flutter up ahead, when Dean spotted activity on the road outside the house. Two cop cars were parked there, and his eyes flickered to the ambulance in the driveway, it’s back doors open. The vehicles were quiet, none of their lights flashing, and a few uniformed EMTs stood around. A cop dressed in all tan surveyed the scene. Their visages were blurred and hazy around the edges due to the heat, and at first Dean thought they might be a mirage. But then Cas said, “Something’s wrong.”

As they got closer, Dean could hear the static and indistinguishable voices over the officer’s radio. He pulled out his fake badge when the officer spotted them and stood to attention. “What’s going on here?” he asked, clipping his tone just enough to sound authoritative. The cop settled at the sight of the badge.

“Drowning,” he said, nodding in the direction of the house. “They found her body a couple hours ago.”

Dean blinked, surprised. It was Cas that asked, “Who?”

The cop said, “The daughter.”

A few minutes later, Dean found himself back on the Bradley’s couch, except this time, he wasn’t being offered orange juice, and Mrs. Bradley was still in her pajamas — but it’d probably be concerning if she took the time to slap on some makeup given the circumstances. She was sitting in the armchair again, ripping up a few tissues into uneven tears on her lap, knuckles white, face blotchy and wet. Her husband stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder, the box of tissues in his other, eyes red and jaw jutting out.

“Mr. and Mrs. Bradley, I’m very sorry for your loss,” Dean told them genuinely. Cas was upstairs in Isabelle’s bedroom, looking for any clues as to what might have happened. The police had ruled it an accidental drowning, because of course they would. More police were trampling through the house, their radios humming every now and again in loud bursts. Isabelle’s body had been taken away before Dean had arrived, and he felt guilty about sleeping in suddenly.

“When did you first notice your daughter was missing?” he asked, trying his best to keep his voice soft. Sam was always better at talking to the bereaved, but it looked like they were stuck with him.

Mrs. Bradley let out a choking sob, and her husband’s hand tightened around her. “Last night, around dinnertime.”

“Do you know what time that was?”

Mr. Bradley looked down in question, and Mrs. Bradley cleared her throat to answer. “Right after six.”

Six. That was a half hour after they’d left, Dean noted. He nodded. “Right. Was it common for your daughter to swim in the swamp?”

“Oh. No,” Mrs. Bradley said, sniffling. “She — um, she would go out there and read. She’d been doing that since she was a little girl.” A kind of smile came to her face, watery and far away. “But she knew better than to swim in there.”

“Do you know of any reason why she would yesterday evening?”

They both shook their head, looking like deer caught in the headlights. Dean doubted she’d gone into the water by choice, anyway. Time to switch gears. “One last question. Do you know if your daughter had any enemies?”

“Enemies?” Mr. Bradley repeated, like he didn’t know what the word meant. Mrs. Bradley’s brows were pinched in confusion, too.

Dean clarified, “Anyone she may have argued with? Possibly a falling out with someone that you know of?” A floorboard creaked overhead, and he figured that was Cas walking around the room.

“No, no, of course not,” Mrs. Bradley said, and Dean tried to figure out if that was just a parent’s ignorance. “Isabelle . . . Well, as you can imagine, there aren’t many people around here. She’s had a small, tight group of girlfriends since grade school. None of them could ever — .” Tears welled in her eyes again, and her voice became thick. “None of them could ever . . .”

Dean nodded gently again. “Of course. I’m just trying to cover all the bases.” So, that was a wash. Maybe the twin knew something the parents didn’t. “I’d like to ask your other daughter a few questions, if I may?”

The perplexed lines on Mrs. Bradley’s expression deepened, and she asked, “Our other daughter?”

If Cas were there, Dean was pretty sure he’d be sporting a tilted his head. “Uh, yeah. Isabelle’s sister?”

“Well,” Mrs. Bradley told him. “I don’t think that will be possible. Liz’s flight doesn’t get in until tomorrow morning.”

“You’re welcome to come back then, if you think that’ll help,” Mr. Bradley offered.

That didn’t make any sense. “Her flight?”

“Oh.” Mrs. Bradley sniffled again. “She’s been in Namibia for weeks, doing conservation work. She was supposed to be there all summer but . . .” She shook her head, and cleared her throat again to compose herself. “She’s on her way back now.”

What, was there a third daughter Dean didn’t know about? He opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Isabelle’s  _ twin _ ,” he pressed, not meaning to sound so harsh. He’d seen her. And he knew he wasn’t going nuts because Cas had seen her, too.

The sweat on his palms suddenly felt cold.

Mrs. Bradley said, “Isabelle doesn’t have a twin.”

Suddenly, Dean couldn’t feel the heat at all. His insides numbed, and bumps raised on his skin. He stared blankly, expressionless, not even blinking as the Bradleys looked back. Not soon enough, he got himself back under control, forcing the prickling realization to fade away. He shot them a tight smile. “Excuse me, I need a word with my associate.”

He barely heard Mrs. Bradley saying, “Oh. Okay . . .” Before getting up and walking as fast as he could to the stairs without making it obvious.

He couldn’t fucking believe it. The thing they were hunting had been right in front of his fucking face. He’d practically tripped over it! How many years had he been doing this? His entire life? Some professional he was. He couldn’t even recognize a monster when it was staring him in the face, and now some girl was dead.

The first step wailed under his shoe as he started up the staircase, and he didn’t get much further before a vicious sound erupted behind him. Dean slammed his back against the wall, his gun already pulled from the back of his waistband and in his hand, safety off, as the snarling and barking continued. The Bradley’s old dog was at the bottom of the stares, ears back and teeth bared. It wasn’t so friendly today. Maybe it had seen something, or maybe it was just a bitch. He breathed out, and clicked the safety back on to put his gun away, even though he really didn’t want to, but he couldn’t just go ahead and shoot a grieving family’s dog.

The barks had subsided to a low growl, and everything inside of Dean coiled. “Yeah,  _ alright _ ,” he barked back. He stood frozen for a second, spine still on the wall. Slowly, testing the waters, he side-stepped onto the next step. The dog growled warily again, but didn’t spring forward, so Dean figured he was okay. He continued up the stairs, eyes fixed on the dog the whole way, until he was on the top landing. He felt a little silly when it was out of sight, but he guessed getting torn apart and dragged to eternal damnation by a pack of hellhounds gave him a healthy amount of concern over the whole species.

Brushing it off, he refocused on the case. He walked down the upstairs hallway, peeking inside every doorway, until he found Cas. Isabelle’s room didn’t have any frills. Like the rest of the house, the walls were vertical wooden slats, and a few photos and posters were taped on them. There was a disorganized bookshelf. A glass of water, gone flat with bubbles, was on the nightstand. Cas was standing in front of a dresser, a three-sided vanity mirror sitting atop it, reflecting him at different angles. In one of them, Dean saw his brow was lined in concentration, head tilted slightly off center as he looked down at the leather-bound journal in his hands. In another, Dean saw a different side of him entirely.

“Anything?” Dean asked as he walked ore fully into the room.

Cas wasn’t startled, like he’d known Dean had entered. “Jeremy Davis asked her to ‘hang out’ before she left for summer. Although, from what she describes here, they did significantly more than — .”

“Alright, I got it,” Dean cut him off, slapping his palm onto the open page and lowering the book. Cas glanced up at him in confusion.

And then his eyes darted across Dean’s face, and he looked even more confused. And concerned. “What is it?”

Dean licked his lips. “You remember Isabelle’s sister? The one we saw yesterday?”

“Yeah,” Cas said, lifting up the journal marginally. “Liz.”

“Not Liz,” Dean corrected, holding up a finger. He shoved his other hand into his pants pocket and fisted it. “Apparently, that’s her older sister, and she’d been in Africa hanging out with Cheetahs for a month.”

Cas didn’t appear to understand. “Then, what about her twin?”

Dean didn’t bother to pause dramatically, because this was the good part. “She doesn’t exist.”

Cas blinked, and then shook his head. And then it seemed to dawn on him. “We saw the monster.”

“It was right fuckin’ there,” Dean agreed, gritting his teeth. Cas sounded somber, dejected. Dean was just pissed. He relaxed his shoulders, letting it go. “But, you know what, this actually isn’t the worst thing that could happen.”

It seemed like kind of a shitty thing to say while standing in the bedroom of the most recent victim.

“Why not?”

Dean plucked the journal out of Cas’ hands and closed it. “Because I think I know what we’re hunting.”

///

They got home a little after lunchtime, and Dean decided to take his second shower of the day just to wash off the grime and sweat. The water was purposefully lukewarm as he stood under the spray, letting it wash over him and cleanse away all the discomfort sitting on his skin. He watched the water whirl around yellowing porcelain at his feet before spiraling down the dark drain.

He’d tried to call Sam a little earlier, because he was pretty sure he knew what they were up against now. It was just a matter of finding out how to defeat it, and maybe Sam could confirm his suspicions so they wouldn’t have to waste time hitting the books. Which, of course, didn’t stop Cas. He was doing just that at the moment, Dean’s phone left with him just in case Sam called back.

When he was satisfied he was clean enough to combat the elements again, he turned off the stream and stepped out of the shower. The heat instantly attacked, latching on to the water droplets on his legs and whispering over his skin. The room wasn’t steamy, put the air sat around him, heavy and dense. He went to the mirror and wiped a streak through it with his hand, his face coming up foggy in the wet lines that clung to the glass. He ran his fingers through his hair a couple times before putting on his jeans and a t-shirt. The shirt was fresh, thank god, but the jeans could probably use a wash. They were stiff and grainy.

Upon opening the door to the bathroom, he heard Cas’ voice from the kitchen, the low murmur of it. He couldn’t hear the words, but he figured Sam must have called and they were on the phone now. He paced towards the kitchen, and the monotonous tone of Cas’ voice became a little clearer. “Of course, the  _ ka _ isn’t necessarily evil. The Egyptians regarded it as one of the main three elements of the soul. There are other mentions in various cultures. The Norse had the vardoger, and the name of Finnish version of the myth translates into  _ firstcomer _ , but again, the morality of such an entity can be argued . . .”

When Dean entered the kitchen, Cas was sitting at the table in front of the laptop, his hand held to his face as he scrolled idly through a webpage. His back was to the hallway. Dean wandered over to the freezer to see what he could whip up for dinner while Cas and Sam were on the phone. Cas could catch him up after. The cold air from the freezer tickled his nose, and chilled the excess water still on him from his shower. It felt good, and Dean almost didn’t want to leave it. He reached in and pulled out a package of chicken breast. Maybe he could do something with that.

He stood back up and closed the door, then tossed the package onto the counter with a wet slap so it could thaw. He was about to interrupt, to ask Cas if he wanted chicken for dinner, but then he noticed his cell phone was still on the table. His cheek was resting in his hand.

And Cas was still talking. “In some cultures, it’s seen as the personification of death—.”

“Who are you talking to?” Dean cut in.

Cas stopped speaking, and his eyes flickered away from the screen to glower at Dean, like he was annoyed. “ _ You _ .”

Dean blinked, thrown. Did Cas really think he’d been in the room the whole time?

Cas sighed, and leaned back in his chair. “Dean, I’m trying to narrow our scope.”

“No, got it. Personification of death or whatever,” Dean said, dismissing it with a wave. He walked over to the table and leaned into it, palms on the wood, to let Cas know he was present in the room and he had his full attention. “Hit me. What else?”

Cas stared at him for a second, and then looked back at the screen. “That’s it, actually.”

Dean wanted to roll his eyes.

On the table next to his hand, his phone started vibrating, Sam’s ID popping up on the screen. Finally. He accepted the call and put it on speaker. “Sam?”

“Hey,” Sam said, not waiting a beat before skipping right into why he was calling. “So, I’ve been thinking about your case, and I think I have a theory. It might be a — .”

“It’s a doppelganger,” Dean cut him off.

There was a slight pause on the other end, and then Sam said, “Yeah. Wait, why? Did something happen?”

“You remember Isabelle Bradley?”

“Yeah?"

“Turns out she doesn’t have a twin.”

“ _ What _ ?”

Across the table, Cas leaned in and added. “Isabelle’s dead. They found her body in the swamp this morning.”

Sam sucked in a breath. “Shit . . .”

“Our thoughts exactly.”

Dean met Cas’ gaze again, and stood up a little straighter. “Okay, so doppelgangers. What d’we know about them?”

Sam had the answer ready. As if he was reading from a textbook, he expounded, “They’re spirits that can change their shape, usually taking on the form of their victim. In Irish lore, it’s called a fetch, and they’re seen as an omen of death or bad luck, but that’s usually because they’re the ones causing it. There’s an old story that Abraham Lincoln saw his after he was elected to office. And the writer Goethe apparently took his horse out one night and saw his doppelganger ride past him.”

Dean furrowed his brow. That was a little weird. “Was the horse a doppelganger, too?”

“Dean,” Sam sighed, but for the briefest second Dean thought he saw one corner of Cas’ mouth twitch upward in amusement, so it was worth it.

“Just a question.”

Sam powered through. “Anyway, I guess the question you gotta ask now is how it’s choosing its victims. I mean, the Dowlings and Isabelle Bradley really didn’t have anything in common, right? Except for the fact they’re neighbors.”

“Yeah, and not exactly the block party, outdoor barbeque type neighbors,” Dean agreed.

“The cameras.”

Dean lifted his head up to look at Cas. “What?”

“The Dowlings put in surveillance cameras outside,” Cas explained. “The Bradleys have one, too. It’s on their doorbell. I saw it.”

Over the line, Sam gave a tinny breath. “That’s right. You think — ?”

“What?” Dean cut in. “The spirit’s hacking into the camera feeds and stealing people’s faces?”

“Not hacking. It wouldn’t have to.” Cas had his head turned, gaze out the window at the swamp beyond. “A spirit is made of pure energy. It draws its power from its surroundings. And there’s a plethora of information all around us at any given second, thanks to your technologies. There’s radio waves, cellular data, wifi. Don’t those cameras work through the Internet?”

Dean blinked. Cas barely knew how to turn on a computer. “So, the doppelganger’s tapping into the wifi signal?”

Cas shrugged and brought his attention back to Dean. “All it would need to do is get on the right frequency. It’s simple to do. At least, if you’re not human.” His voice dipped lower on that last part. Dean thought back to all those times Cas picked up the police scanner wavelengths, or that time he got Fred Jones to listen to Beethoven over the radio inside his own head. He wondered how often Cas did that without telling them.

“Okay, so cameras,” Dean allowed. He knew he didn’t trust those things. He looked back down at his phone, the seconds of the call time on screen ticking higher and higher. “How do we kill it? Same as a normal spirit?”

“Salt and burn the bones,” Sam confirmed.

Which meant they’d need to figure out whose bones to burn. “Great. More research.”

///

Spending the rest of the day in front of the computer researching old homicide articles and obituaries was, for the most part, boring as hell. Dean had even fallen asleep at one point, cheek in hand, and Cas yelled at him to wake up, saying Dean should “either help for leave.” Dean stayed, but Cas seemed pretty ticked off at him until they finally decided to call it a night at around 1:30 AM. They could pick up tomorrow, and Dean was hopeful that they’d actually find something. Which was to say, he wasn’t hopeful at all, because this was South Florida, where everyone was off their rocker, and there were more violent deaths per capita than was strictly necessary.

When Cas said goodnight and went into his bedroom, closing the door behind him, Dean wondered briefly if he should sleep in there tonight. Cas’ words on the dock that morning were still echoing in his head, and he thought they could both use some restful sleep. It had been a good day. Not the whole thing about the girl getting killed, but with Cas. Even if they ended the day with Cas annoyed with him. It was good to feel like a team again. And it was good to know that Cas, too, was feeling this  _ thing _ that had been between them for years. Dean was counting it as a general win—or, at least, in the vicinity of a win. Maybe the days would get better from now on.

Dean thought of that as he lay in bed, listening to the swamp sounds out his window, hearing the occasional buzz of a mosquito whirl past his eardrum, happy that he’d had the foresight to put on bug spray, even though it smelled. And then the minutes ticked by, and turned into an hour, and Dean had tossed and turned so much, his sheets were rumbled. His coverlet had been kicked to the floor. His eyes were dry and burning, but everything else was soaking wet, and still he couldn’t sleep.

It was the heat. It felt like a weight, strapped to him, pulling him down further and further into the dark abyss until his lungs were full of it and his head was spinning. It felt like a cage, too small, too close to his skin.

It was this house. With its dark corners that kept catching Dean’s eyes, like he’d seen a shape in his peripheries. With its groans and creaks and old, decaying sounds. It unsettled him when his mind wasn’t otherwise occupied. It sat in his gut, writhing and clawing at his insides.

Frustrated, he got out of bed, knowing he’d never fall asleep feeling so unclean. His door was still halfway open, even though he’d long given up hope that it would do anything to push the humidity out of the room. Maybe he was hoping for something else to come in. The hallway was pitch black, and he blinked until his eyes adjusted to the vague outlines of where the wall met the floor. He put his hand out, fingers grazing the plaster as he moved, the wall whispering under the touch until he was confident enough to drop his hand. The floor beneath him purred like a sleeping beast with every light footfall. The hallway seemed longer somehow at night, stretching on forever, and it was strange, but his skin lifted with the sensation that something was waiting for him on the other end.

When he reached it, Cas’ bedroom door was still closed. Dean paused next to it, and leaned his ear against the wood. The only thing he heard was his own breathing, and he realized it was hitching irrationally. Maybe he should open the door, go inside, rush into Cas’ bed like a child afraid of the monster beneath grabbing his ankles if he moved too slowly. But he didn’t hear any movement inside, no telltale shuffling of feet or rustling of sheets, so that hopefully meant Cas was asleep.

Dean walked on until he finally reached the bathroom, and he snaked his hand around the threshold, blindly feeling for the light switch. The fluorescents rattled on, dull white light emanating, mixing with the dark and casting a greenish glow. Dean turned on the water in the sink and immediately stuck his face under. He took a few sips of the brackish water, feeling a little better on the inside. He stayed bent over the sink and splashed water on his face and chest, soaked his hair with it. It was the best he could do.

He stood up, droplets thick on his eyelashes as he tried to blink them away, his visage blurry in the mirror. He wiped both hands down his face to get the job done, and opened his eyes. And gasped as he stumbled backwards, right into the door, thudding at his back.

He blinked rapidly, shook his head out. His own face stared back at him, moving as he moved. But, for the briefest second, he thought he’d seen something else. He thought he’d been looking at the back of his own head in the reflection. He breathed, heart thundering in his ears, pounding against his ribs. He was fine.

He didn’t flip the light off until he was fully out of the bathroom, and told himself that his pace while walking back to his room wasn’t quickened. That his stomach wasn’t thick with knots, and his eyes weren’t scanning every inch of the darkness, hyper-alert, aware of every noise. He wasn’t acting ridiculous.

When he got back to his room, he closed the door fully and breathed, as if he was somehow in a safe space now. His phone chimed, washing the room with blue light, with a Nest Cam notification. Dean clamped his jaw, and walked to where the device was resting on the dresser.

_ Activity detected in backyard _

He watched the digital version of Cas walking along the dirt path. He stood on the dock, looking out at the water. He guessed neither of them could fall asleep, after all. Maybe if they were together . . .


	4. The Swamp

When Castiel first settled in for sleep that night, he thought it would pull him under quickly. But his mind was still abuzz, combing over all the research he’d done, circling back to the notes he’d jotted down whenever a potential lead caught his interest. Then, after time, his thoughts slowed to nothing but a background hum. And still he couldn’t sleep. He’d given up on it for some time, but decided to try his hand at it again.

He closed his eyes, but it didn’t matter. Whether they were opened or closed, all he saw was darkness, stretching on forever. He realized he was thinking about Jack. That wasn’t anything new. Jack was always on his mind in one way or another. Castiel didn’t think that would ever change, not until the end of him. He wished he were with Jack.

He blinked open as the moon outside the thin curtains came out from behind a cloud. It provided some light, just enough for his eyes to adjust to stare at the ceiling. There was a crack in it—thin and toothed. A fracture split it in two, forking out in different directions and then converging again, as if trying to mesh back together, but never quite able to. The divide between them remained.

A muffled creak signified someone was in the hallway. The footsteps stopped outside his door. Castiel picked his head up from the pillow, and squinted forwards. He could feel the presence hovering just on the other side of the wood, and he didn’t know if it was human instinct or his grace. It made the back of his neck prickle.

“Dean?” Who else would it be? It was just the two of them in the house. But an irrational thought occurred to him, telling him they weren’t.

The knob on the door rattled and twisted, and then the door opened up, rusted hinges whining. It opened slowly, like the person on the other side was trying to keep it from making a sound, but the opposite happened. It drew it out into a low, continuous creak. Dean poked his head in. His face was covered in shadows, but Castiel could see the outline of him in the moonlight. He felt a relieved breath trip out of him, and he didn’t know why. Of course, it was Dean.

“Hey,” Dean said, opening the door some more and coming in. He turned to close it again, one hand on the knob and the other on the wood, as if he were sneaking around. Castiel wanted to remind him that they were alone, but he only stared. When Dean looked around again, he said, “Can’t sleep, either?”

“No,” Castiel sighed, and sat up. Dean walked further into the room and climbed into bed with him. He rolled onto his side, and propped himself up by his elbow. Castiel strained his neck to look at him, but his face was still shadowy, the silvery moon from the window backlighting him. He was only in his boxers. Castiel looked down at his lap, and wet his lips. It was too uncomfortably hot to be lying in bed together, but Castiel’s skin was flushing at the thought of being so close to him.

He wondered if Dean would stay with him, if only so he could get some sleep.

“Yeah, me either,” Dean said lightly. And then, “It’s this place, right? It’s kinda . . . Forget it.”

Castiel looked back at him. “Kind of what?”

“Spooky.” Castiel didn’t respond. Dean had hunted all manner of things—ghosts and ghouls, vampires, demons, just to name a few. It was a very un-Dean-like thing to say, or at least to admit. But, he supposed, monsters were different than the darkness. Human beings had evolved to be wary of it. But it was new for Castiel. He never thought he’d fear a shadow.

“Shut up,” Dean said off his silence, like he thought Castiel was thinking him silly.

“No, it is . . . _spooky_ ,” Castiel said. He felt silly saying it himself.

For a while, Dean just stared at him, and Castiel couldn’t tell whether or not he was even blinking. It didn’t feel like he was. He said, “Cas,” and his voice was barely above a whisper. Castiel bent down and kissed him. Dean tilted his head up and kissed back, his hand coming up to wrap around the back of Castiel’s neck.

He licked against Dean’s lips, carving past them to dip his tongue into Dean’s mouth. Dean gave a grunting sound, hot breath rising out of his throat. Castiel felt his body stir, all of him pulsing towards Dean. He broke away for a moment to lift his shirt over his head and toss it away. Then he turned his body and laid down, half on top of Dean, their chests pressed together. Dean’s skin was slick with sweat already. Castiel felt his hands drag up his ribs as they kissed.

Dean pulled Castiel’s bottom lip between his teeth, and kissed around his jaw, his stubble scratching Castiel’s skin red and raw. Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him, moving with him as he put Castiel on his back. He worked his way down Castiel’s body, sucking and licking and scraping with his teeth. He focused on the skin on Castiel’s hips, working bruises into his flesh with his lips. Castiel’s hands were clutching Dean’s skull to keep him in place, and to try to push him lower. He felt his dick filling out, and he wanted to feel Dean’s mouth around him, to push himself into the wet heat.

His breath shuddered when Dean pulled off his skin, and crawled back up his body, white teeth the only thing remotely visible in the darkness. “ _Dean_ ,” Castiel complained, wanting to push him back down, but Dean grabbed his wrist and held tightly, making Castiel’s heart seize before kicking faster back into life. He took Castiel’s other arm and brought them up to the headboard, Castiel’s fingers wrapping around the slats. Dean’s grip tightened on his wrists.

They kissed hard, slick lips dragging together and teeth knocking. Dean started working his hips, grinding their groins together. He was so hard in his boxers. Castiel could feel it every time their bodies came together. They crashed into each other faster and faster, harder and harder, skin slapping and bones hammering. Castiel felt soaked through with sweat. Dean had such a vice grip on his wrists, his fingers began to tingle numbly.

They broke away from each other’s lips to drag in sharp breaths, and Castiel’s lungs burned and heaved, and all he could hear was a choppy, strangled voice shouting, “Jesus—Cas. _Fuck_. Castiel.” The headboard kept banging against the wall, and the bed’s box spring screamed under the pressure.

Dean let go of his wrists with a sharp sting, like he’d left half-moon claw marks and broken skin behind. He quickly reached down to take off Castiel’s boxers, and Castiel tore Dean’s down, and they kicked them off to the end of the bed. And then they were on each other again, cocks sliding together. Dean shoved his face into Castiel’s shoulder, his teeth sinking into his collarbone. Castiel scratched up Dean’s back before latching on. They moved like they were trying to force their way inside each other.

Castiel’s eyes flew open, to the crack on the ceiling. His gaze stayed glued to it as he came undone. His body locked up, everything inside of him searing. He moaned loudly through it, and distantly he felt Dean’s body tense and release.

They slowed against each other, the last juddering movements subsiding. Castiel’s heart was slamming, and his muscles sore. The skin on his hips and stomach felt raw. He unburied his nails from Dean’s back, and smoothed his palms down his spine.

Dean let out a long breath, and then exhumed his face from Castiel’s shoulder. His lips were curved into a small smile. Castiel grinned back. He wished he could see Dean’s eyes. He wished he could tell Dean that he never felt so alive, so real, as he did when they were fucking.

After a moment, Dean rolled off of him, and Castiel’s chest felt a little colder than before. He laid back on his pillow, letting his body settle. The sweat didn’t so much dry as it did mix with the humidity in the air. His limbs felt heavy around him.

He rolled into Dean, fitting himself into Dean’s side. Dean looked around for something, and then reached over the side of the bed. He came back up with the top sheet, and Castiel wanted to laugh because he hadn’t even known it had fallen off. Dean used it to wipe down his stomach, and then cleaned Castiel off. “Nasty,” he muttered.

Castiel hummed. “I already feel so disgusting, I hardly noticed.”

Dean laughed. “We should rest up,” he said, planting a hard, warm kiss to his hairline that made the corners of Castiel’s lips pull up. “Big day tomorrow.”

Castiel snorted out a laugh as he settled in against Dean’s shoulder. “I’m not sure if reading obituaries and newspaper articles qualifies as a big day,” he joked.

For a moment, Dean didn’t respond. His hand had stilled on Castiel’s back, and his chest rose and fell in steady, even breaths. Against Castiel’s ear, Dean’s heart was beating a shallow rhythm, which was strange considering how his own was still beating quickly in his chest. He thought that was it, so he closed his eyes for sleep, but then Dean said, “Yeah, you know, I was thinking.”

Castiel blinked his eyes open to the dark corner of the room and listened, waiting for Dean to go on. When he finally did, he said, “We should probably look into that drowning some more. I was thinking about going to the swamp. Retracing that girl’s steps or something to see what happened.”

But they didn’t know what steps she’d taken. It was likely the doppelganger overpowered her somehow after they left the Bradley’s home. He didn’t see what purpose reliving her final moment would do. “Isabelle’s? He asked, just to clarify.

“Right, yeah, Isabelle,” Dean said thoughtfully.

It seemed like a waste of time to Castiel, but perhaps Dean had seen something he hadn’t. “Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow, we can go back to the Bradley’s house and try to ascertain more information about—.”

“No, Cas, I meant me,” Dean interrupted, and there was something about his tone that gave Castiel pause. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. But he tried to make it sound casual. Castiel froze, and listened to Dean continue, “We can split up. I’ll do the recon, and you can keep at it here.”

Castiel considered it—or, he considered what Dean was trying to say. Something lay in between his words, and it made Castiel’s heart beat quickly for a different reason now. Dean dragged his finger down the curve of his spine, and it felt like ice. “Are you—,” Castiel said, trying to understand, “trying to get out of research?” Even as he said it, he knew it was wrong. Dean often tried to get out of research, and often succeeded, but this felt different than his normal reluctance, and his excuses. Castiel couldn’t pinpoint why.

“No,” Dean said, his voice going up in pitch at the end, but it was deliberate, like he was trying to make Castiel think that was the reason, after all. “I’m just, you know, better at that kinda stuff. And you’re better at research.”

Something dark and hollow opened up in Castiel’s gut, like a night without moonlight. Maybe he was just reading into Dean’s words. Maybe he was mistaken. He lifted himself up by his palms, hands sinking into the mattress, and looked over his shoulder at Dean, whose face was still hidden by the shadows.

“Better than what?” he challenged, tone clipped despite his best efforts.

Dean’s shoulder lifted and dropped as he breathed out. His hand fell away from Castiel’s skin. “Come on, Cas. Don’t take it like that. I just—we don’t want anyone else to die, right?”

Castiel brows shot up, pulling his forehead. Dean had said something like that earlier in the day, too, like he expected Castiel to get himself and those around him killed. He’d led armies in heaven for a reason, and it wasn’t because he was incompetent. “I know how to hunt, Dean.”

“Didn’t say you didn’t,” Dean maintained. And then, calmly, “But we can’t afford for anything to go wrong here.”

For a long time, Castiel couldn’t move. He wasn’t even fully convinced this was happening. Maybe it was a dream—maybe that’s why every inch of him felt numb and sterile, every atom in him vibrating. But then the numbness ebbed away, and the vibrating turned to ringing— _shaking_ —and he realized his body was tense and seething.

They were supposed to be past this. Dean had apologized. But, apparently, he hadn’t meant it.

“Leave,” Castiel told him, his voice not allowing for argument. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else. If he did, he might regret it—but why should he? Dean obviously didn’t.

Dean shifted, sitting up off the headboard. “Cas,” he said, and there was a placating, condescending smile in his voice. Castiel could picture his expression, cavalier and cocky. “I’m just saying, I’ve been doing this forever—.” Castiel scoffed, and ripped himself away before he broke one of Dean’s bones. He turned his back to him.

 _Forever_. What did Dean know of forever? He was just a man.

“Go, Dean,” he said, giving him one last chance.

A long time went by, silence stretching, and Castiel could feel Dean starring at his back. And then, the mattress shifted, and Dean got up. Castiel felt him standing there behind him, looming like a shadow. He dipped down to grab his boxers, and then slipped into them. “Okay, Cas. ‘Night,” he said, like it was nothing.

Castiel felt a pressure burning behind his eyes, and he locked his jaw to kept it down. He stared blankly a spot of the floor next to the bed, trying not to listen to the way the house breathed beneath Dean’s footsteps, or the sound of the door shutting gently, as if everything was fine. The floorboard was warped, a dark grain pattern swirling in the wood to resemble a crude face. From it, two eyes stared back at him, never blinking. The corners of its mouth offered a dim smile.

///

As soon as Castiel woke up, he wished he was happy; but he guessed it wouldn’t matter. He felt empty already. He couldn’t sense his grace at all. It had gone out like a candle, nothing left now but the gray smoke curling from the wick to disappear into nothing. It was only a matter of time until it went cold. Perhaps Dean was right. He needed to adjust to life without his powers; but, then again, he didn’t need his grace to hunt. It just made everything easier. He could do things the hard way. Maybe that thought was the only thing that got him out of bed, or maybe it was because his bed sheets were uncomfortable and matted with sweat and still smelled like Dean.

In the kitchen, Dean was stirring, and the sharp scent of onions pressed in as he fried up an omelet. The fire from the burner added to the packed in heat as the sun shined through the windows overlooking the swamp. The windows were open, but the air was still, and a few dead bugs were stuck in the screens and scattered on the windowsill, legs still twitching. The light pouring through them cast shadows against every solid thing it touched.

“Morning,” Dean said, voice gruff from exhaustion. His skin was a little pallid, eyes unfocused and dark underneath. He apparently hadn’t spelt well, either, and a satisfied rush of petty vengeance spiked through Castiel. His anger had retreated, but as the tide retreats, and it seemed it was swelling again.

“Hungry?”

“No.” His voice was curt, and he was lying, but Dean only shrugged. He went to the dining room table, sat down in front of Dean’s laptop, and unfolded it, meaning to bury himself into finding out who their doppelganger was in life. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of Dean moving about the kitchen, flipping the omelet, plating it, rattling through the utensils drawer until he found a fork. Every small sound set Castiel’s teeth on edge. Dean was behaving as if everything were normal.

Soon, Dean wandered over to the table and sat across from Castiel. He sliced into his breakfast with the side of his fork, the once-sharp tongs jagged and chipped with years of use. Mouth full, he asked, “Should we go check out that girl’s body at the morgue?”

Castiel lifted his eyes over the screen.

“Just to, you know,” Dean went on, swallowing. He gestured with his fork in a circular motion. “See if anything’s weird?”

Castiel’s eyes flickered back down to the screen, and he clicked on another archival article from a local news site. This was getting him nowhere. He’d need better resources. Perhaps he should find the town’s library. If nothing else, it would get him out of the house.

“Any kind of response would be nice,” Dean said after a minute, voice clipped, knowing Castiel was ignoring him. Castiel’s glare shot up to him again, and Dean’s expression changed. He dropped his shoulders, pursed his lips, and put down his fork. “You seriously still pissed at me?”

Castiel scoffed. He stood up, and closed the laptop gently. “Maybe you should go view the body, Dean, or retrace the victim’s steps, or whatever ‘leg-work’ you think necessary,” Castiel seethed, giving air quotes and ignoring the way Dean was blanching, “without me. I’ll stick to what I’m good at. That’s research, right? Staying out of the way so no one else dies?”

Dean held his stare for a long time, hard and unblinking, and then he tore his eyes away. He shook his head, like he had any reason to be angry. “Fine,” he said, getting to his feet, too. “Have it your way.” He stalked off towards the hallway, the line of his shoulders as taut as a fishing line with prey on its hook. He left his unfinished breakfast on the table, eggs congealing in the heat, waiting to go cold.

///

Apart from the tense, silent car ride, the remainder of the morning was spent apart. Dean dropped Castiel off in front of the library, and wheeled the Impala around in the direction of the morgue, and Castiel didn’t linger to watch him drive off before walking into the squat building. He was the only person in the library, and the elderly librarian led him to the records room in the back, stacked with old, yellowing newspapers, phone books, maps, and public records. He took a desk towards the back of the room, in front of a dinosaur of a desktop computer that appeared to still run on dial-up. The printer charged fifty cents per page for printing, and twenty-five for copies. He kept busy, searching for other drownings in the area. He thought that would be a good place to start, considering how their two victims died. But there were almost too many to count; fewer, however, when he took the tourists out of the equation. He ignored the fact that he felt Dean’s absence like a hollow pit.

Around lunchtime, Castiel’s phone vibrated with an incoming call from Dean. He rolled his eyes, sighed, and picked up the phone. “Hello?” he asked, not bothering to keep his voice down. The library was vacant, and even if it weren’t, it didn’t matter. The room he was in was sequestered. He licked his fingertip to turn the dry, brittle page of a police report from over a year ago, the paper rustling under his touch.

His attention was divided as Dean said, “Hey. Find anything?”

Castiel skimmed the report. “Nope.” It wasn’t entirely true. He had a short list written down on a pad of paper in a messy scrawl, some names underlined and others crossed out. He wasn’t overly confident in any of them, so it wasn’t worth mentioning.

“Okay,” Dean said, dragging out the word. And then, “Me neither. Didn’t look like there were any signs of a struggle on the body, so I guess Isabelle didn’t put up a fight. I swung by the Bradley’s, too, and checked out the spot where they think she drowned. No scuffmarks or anything—it was weird. But I talked to Sammy. He said sometimes doppelgangers can have influence over their victims, make them do things, kinda like hypnosis. So, maybe it’s not that weird. Ya know, since you asked.”

Castiel sat back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes until they were sore. When he blinked them open, it took a while for the darkness around his vision to fade away. He looked back down at the police report, something catching his attention.

Dean was saying, “Anyway, what d’you say I swing by and pick you up? We could grab something eat before starting up again. No way I’m leaving this state without a slice of key lime pie—.”

“Dean, wait,” Castiel said, scanning the report to consume the information as quickly as possible. I think I just found something. There was a man—Brendon Carlin. He died last year, drowning in the swamp. He’d gone out alone on his boat and fell over the side. His body suffered, uh—,” he read from the report, “multiple lacerations from wildlife, most like crocodile.”

“He was eaten?” Dean said, putting it into layman's terms.

Castiel let out a breath. “Yeah. Post-mortem.”

Dean must have followed his train of thought, because he said, “Sounds a lot like what fake-Thomas Dowling said to real-Isabelle Bradley.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “It does.”

“Any next of kin?”

Castiel regarded the report. “A widow. There are records of his wife being interviewed.”

Dean asked, “You got an address?”

///

Fat clumps of rain were splattering on the Impala’s windshield as Dean pulled up to the curb outside Mrs. Carlin’s home. The droplets burst upon impact, and splintered outwards to drag down the glass in lethargic, jagged lines. The sun was still out, its light lemonade yellow and hazy around the clouds. Dean squinted upwards as he peered out the window. “Looks like the devil’s beating is wife,” he said, and that was ridiculous. He knew Lucifer hadn’t been married. Castiel shot him a confused look, and Dean glanced over to see if the joke landed, then rolled his eyes when he realized it hadn’t.

Castiel turned his head to look out the window, at the house past his reflection in the side mirror. The house looked almost identical to the rest on the block—small, one-story, made of stucco concrete, with a tiny lawn of manicured crab grass and a white slab driveway. The only thing different about any of the houses in the neighborhood was the garish colors they were painted—baby blue and mint green, corral, lavender; in Mrs. Carlin’s case, sunflower yellow. The neighborhood was inland, and in a much more residential area of town than their rental house.

Like Dean, Castiel had changed into his suit. He pulled at his tie to provide some kind of comfort from the heat as Dean asked, “Alright, tell me about this guy.”

“Brendon Carlin,” Castiel said without looking back from house. “Born and raised in Key Largo. He was an airboat tour guide at John Pennekamp for twelve years. One day, he took his boat off-route, alone, and fell into the water. His body was recovered two days later.”

Dean hummed. “A guy who works on the water drowning? Yeah, that’s not fishy at all.” Castiel had to agree.

They got out of the car to walk up the stone walkway to the front door. The rain dotted their shoulders, and one drop hit Castiel right under his eye, rolling down his cheek. The door had a small tin roof over it, glinting in the sun, and it offered shade and protection from the rain. As Dean knocked on the door, Castiel looked at the dark windows of the house, their metal hurricane shutters open and slanted upwards. He turned back and waited, and Dean oriented his body to him, crowding in close on the small stoop. Dean met his eye, and then furrowed his brow. He reached up and brushed the raindrop off of Castiel’s cheek, his thumb warm, and Castiel’s pulse stuttered.

There were footsteps inside, and the door opened up to a woman probably no older than forty. “Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Carlin?” Dean asked, and the woman nodded.

A few minutes later, they were seated at the breakfast table of her small kitchen, coffee steaming in mugs in front of them. Mrs. Carlin, still perplexed, asked, “I don’t understand. Brendon died a year ago. Why are you looking into it now?”

“Well, Mrs. Carlin,” Dean began, seeming thankful for the air conditioning in the house. The sweat on his hairline was drying into a dull sheen. Castiel was grateful for it, too. He sipped his coffee, and realized he hadn’t put anything in his stomach all day. The discomfort that caused settled in, gnawing. He ignored it.

“There have been a few similar drownings in the area recently, and we’re trying to establish a pattern,” Dean lied.

She blinked, thrown. “Wait. You mean—you think it wasn’t an accident?”

“We don’t have any proof as of yet,” Castiel told her. “But it’s a possibility.”

“Ma’am, can you walk us through the days before your husband’s death?” Dean added. “Did he mention anything out of the ordinary? Maybe you noticed something unusual?”

Mrs. Carlin’s brows dipped, and she looked down at the table. “Well,” she said, but she sounded a little cagey. “Something strange did happen.” She looked up at them, as if waiting for them to ask her to go on. She seemed a little skittish.

Dean gestured out his hand, signaling they were listening.

She breathed out, and looked away. “You’re probably going to think I’m crazy, but—First let me say this: both me and Brendon grew up around here. I knew him since pre-k. We even went to the same college.” Her mouth lifted a little in memory, and then it flickered away. “And, for as long as I’ve known him, weird things always happened around him.”

“Weird how?” Castiel asked, leaning into the table.

She rolled her eyes upward, as if she were being silly. “Just—our friends would see him in places when he wasn’t there. Or, at least, he _said_ he wasn’t. I remember once, in college, one of our friends asked him how he got into his dorm room one night, and Brendon had no idea what he was talking about. And there was another time, someone said they saw him standing on their front lawn at night.” She shook her head thoughtfully. “And . . . When we were kids, we used to go down to the beach and play games. We were playing hide and seek one day, and everyone went to go hide. Now, _I_ didn’t see it, but the kid doing the seeking said Brendon had snuck up on him and grabbed his shoulder. He said he wouldn’t let go.”

Castiel froze. He glanced at Dean.

“But Brendon was with me the whole time. We were hiding in the trees,” Mrs. Carlin told them. “So, you see? _Weird_.”

There was a shadow of concern on Dean’s face. He wet his lips, and asked, “Did you ever experience anything like that yourself?”

“There were times after we got married that I thought I’d see him in the house when he was out. Or I would hear the floorboards creak, or see him in the mirror behind me when he wasn’t. They were only brief things. It was . . . I told myself I was seeing things. You know, people always make excuses for these things.”

She laughed lightly, but she seemed shaken. Castiel’s gut was twisting with icy tendrils.

“And, then, about a week before the accident—he went up to Jupiter Beach to visit his aunt, and there was a knock on the door. Around midnight,” she said, voice slow, as if she were reliving the moment now. “I didn’t want to answer, but I wanted to see who was at the door. I took my phone—,” her hand curled, as if she were holding something, “in case I needed to call the police, and tiptoed up to the door to look through the peephole. And it was my husband.” She glanced up, eyes coming back into focus. “At first, I thought he just got home early and forgot his key or something. So, I opened the door for him; but, when I did, he wasn’t on the other side. But I could have sworn . . .” She let herself trail off, and then rattled her head. “He was out there. It was strangest thing. He just had this . . . this _smile_ . . .”

The gnawing in Castiel’s gut had moved up to his throat. He shared a look with Dean, and he could tell they were thinking the same thing. Maybe Brendon Carlin wasn’t the doppelganger. Maybe it had been haunting him, and his death wasn’t an accident, after all. Maybe, now that he was dead, the doppelganger was seeking out another victim. Whatever the case, all of this started with him.

She gave a dismissive kind of wave, and said, tone lighter, “I never told Brendon what happened. Whenever anyone would say something like that, he would just laugh it off, say it was his evil twin.” Maybe she was laughing it off now, too. She might have convinced herself she’d been dreaming, but she clearly didn’t believe it.

“Mrs. Carlin,” Dean said, tuning back to her, “what do _you_ think it was?”

She looked between them, assessing. She said, “Well, I’m not sure if you believe in ghosts, agents . . .”

Dean snorted, easing her mind that they wouldn’t send her to an asylum. “You have no idea.”

“Well, Brendon didn’t.” She folded her hands together, squeezing until her knuckles shown under her thin fresh. “But, I do. Always have. And I think Brendon got it right.” She nodded to herself. “I think it was his twin.” Castiel tilted his head to the side. She explained, “See, right before she died, Brendon’s mother told him he was supposed to have a twin, but it was stillborn. But I think it stuck around, anyway.”

Castiel looked back at Dean, and Dean slowly turned to return his gaze. For a while, they only stared at one another. And then Mrs. Carlin sat upright, as if coming back to herself, and said, “I’m sorry. What does this have to do with the accident?”

When they walked out of Mrs. Carlin’s house, the rain had stopped, and the sun was blazing down on the steaming earth. “Do you think Carlin’s twin could be the doppelganger?” Castiel asked as they got to the walkway.

Dean stopped walking, and turned around to face him. They hovered so close, Castiel could feel the heat coming off his body. “Probably,” Dean said. “There have been hundreds of doppelganger cases where a twin dies, or the other one eats ‘em in the womb, and their spirit latches onto their sibling. Hell, it’s kinda a doppelganger cliché.”

Castiel processed that. “And the doppelganger. It . . . _murdered_ its brother?”

“Makes sense,” Dean shrugged. He gestured out with his hand as he spoke. “One twin dies and the other survives. Over time, the spirit grows angrier and angrier that it never got to live—takes it out on its twin.” It was solid reasoning, but something about it didn’t sit right with Castiel. He just couldn’t pinpoint what. Dean continued, “We should check out the spot where Carlin died—see if there’s any EMF. That’ll tell us if we’re on the right track. Did the police report say where it happened?”

Castiel nodded. “Yeah, but, Dean, it’s in the middle of the swamp. How are we going to get there? Neither of us know how to operate a boat—and, even if we did, we don’t have one.”

Dean slapped a hand to his shoulder and said with staggering confidence, “Rule one of being human: there’s nothing you can’t learn on YouTube.” He let his arm fall away, and turned halfway towards where the Impala was parked. He paused, looked back with a flashing grin, and said, “And what do you mean, we don’t have a boat?”

///

Castiel wouldn’t exactly call an airboat a boat—at least, not this one. The tin sides were rusted and thin, and he was afraid he’d tear a hole in them if he pressed his fingers to the metal. The large fan on the back grinded and hiccupped as it propelled them foreword, creating a loud whirring that hurt his ears and made it impossible to speak without a great deal of shouting and lip-reading. Dean was at the seat up top, steering the boat with the lever, his reflection splintered in the cracked side-mirror that showed him their rear view.

The boat trampled over reeds, bending and drowning them, only to have them pop up on the other side dripping and crooked. Their wake was the only life in the otherwise moribund waters.

Castiel did his best to navigate, armed with a map of the swamp and the general location of where Brendon Carlin perished provided by the police report. The wind from the fan sucked back his hair and slapped against his cheeks, and the sun was blinding in his eyes. Dean’s skin was turning pink, from his cheeks to his pointed ears. Along the sides of the swamp, Castiel caught the occasional glimpse of alligators sunning themselves in the muck.

The spot of the drowning was close to their rental, which could explain why the doppelganger was haunting that area. It only took them about a half hour to reach it, and Dean stopped the fan-engine on Castiel’s signal when he thought they were close. With the noise cut off, everything was suddenly silent, and Castiel thought he might have actually gone deaf in the absence of the vibrations rattling his eardrums. But then the squawking of birds ebbed in, and the frequent splash from something in the distant waters. A heron was flapping its wings on the side bank, legs submerged underwater.

“Alright, let’s see what we can see,” Dean said, sliding off the raised partition of the captain’s chair and moving to their duffel bag on one of the benches. The boat rocked under his movements, and Castiel’s hand immediately shot out to grip the side. First, Dean pulled the bottle of sunscreen out of the bag. He squirted some into his hands and rubbed it onto his arms and nose, covering his freckles, leaving white globs and unblended streaks behind. He tossed it back inside and brought out the EMF detector, pulling up the antennae. It came to life with a sudden warbling sound, and then went silent.

Dean frowned. He shakily got up to his feet and paced to the side of the boat, holding the EMF out to scan the area. At first, Castiel’s gut lurched, afraid Dean would fall into the water, but he seemed to have his footing; and then a stranger sensation stole over him, telling him to push Dean.

He looked in the opposite direction, gritting his teeth as the momentary intrusion went away. He stared down at the water bugs skimming across the surface of the murky swamp. He could see his reflection in the ripples, dark and swaying, blurry around the edges, staring back at him.

“Dean, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “What if Carlin’s doppelganger didn’t kill him out of revenge? What if was so they could be together?” He turned his head back to Dean, who glanced over his shoulder before returning his focus to the EMF.

“What d’you mean?”

Castiel thinned his lips. They felt too dry, cracked, despite the muddy air. “They were connected,” he explained. “And you said doppelgangers can influence their victims. Perhaps Carlin intentionally drowned himself. Perhaps his twin gave him the idea.”

Not looking up from the red lights of the EMF, Dean posed, “Okay, then why keep killing people if it got what it wanted?”

That part of his hypothesis wasn’t as fleshed out, but Castiel decided to say it anyway. “Maybe it’s looking for a form to take, and killing the real versions of the ones it tries.”

“Didn’t kill Dowling,” Dean pointed out. “It killed his wife. She wasn’t the one whose _form_ it took.”

“Yes,” Castiel said, eyes searching the bottom of the boat in thought. He remembered, “But she was suspicious of the doppelganger. It could have been afraid she would find out the truth.”

Dean hummed. “If I was looking for a body to wear, I’d choose Lupita Nyong’o.”

Castiel sighed.

More seriously, Dean said, voice noncommittal. “It’s a theory.”

There wasn’t really a current, but their boat was drifting and spinning in slow motion. The EMF spiked with a wail, and then faded again.

Castiel regarded Dean’s back, feeling the heat burning inside of him. “But it’s not one you’ll entertain.”

Dean looked over his shoulder quite suddenly, expression hard.

Castiel boiled. “Dean, I know you’ve been hunting longer that I have, but I may occasionally stumble upon valuable input. If you won’t take me seriously, why am I here?”

“Whoa, hang on,” Dean said, voice already pressed. He wheeled around, causing the boat to tip slightly, and Castiel challenged his glare. After a beat, Dean’s expression shifted into something softer. He set the EMF down on the bench and crossed the boat to Castiel. He sat down right in front of him, straddling the bench, and Castiel wanted to tear his eyes away. He swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Cas, you know I don’t really think that,” Dean said. Castiel didn’t answer.

After a while, Dean sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, man, I’m trying here.”

Castiel clamped his jaw and looked away, that cold emptiness steeling over him again. “You think I’m better suited away from the action. You think I’ll mess up.”

Dean dropped his hand to his lap. “Well, not for nothing, Cas, but you’re the one who found this lead. What did I find today? _Bupkis_!” His voice was curt, but Castiel thought that sounded like a compliment. The coldness in him stalled. He looked up. “No one’s saying you’re not handy in a fight, powers or not—,” Dean told him, gesturing his hand up and down Castiel’s person. “But, sometimes . . .” He breathed out, and looked down coyly. “We need that dumbass big brain of yours, too. To catch stuff we missed—and for strategizing and whatever. We all gotta play with the team.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say, except maybe that he loved him.

After some time, Dean looked up, eyes full of something difficult to decipher. “You think we could be that, again, Cas?” he said softly, like he was afraid of the answer. “A team?”

Castiel’s eyes were stinging in the sunlight, but he felt warm. He’d like to be a team again—very much. He’d like to be happy with Dean. Dean’s eyes searched his face, hopeful. He opened his mouth and drew in breath to speak.

And then the EMF sprang into life, shattering the atmosphere. Dean turned around quick. He cleared his throat, his walls visibly rebuilding themselves as he set his shoulders, and scooped up the device. Castiel’s gut swam, but he refocused his attention. He looked around for any signs of danger, but saw none. The EMF was still screaming. It cut off abruptly when Dean turned it off and pushed the antenna down with the flat of his palm.

“Okay, looks like the drowning wasn’t so accidental, after all,” he said, his voice only slightly strained as he attempted to push past the lingering vulnerability.

Castiel nodded. They’d both expected as much, but it was good to have confirmation. Dean reached up and wiped the sweat from his hairline. “Least now we know for sure who our doppelganger is,” he said, getting to his feet. He raised his hand, hesitated, and then clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Good work.”

He turned back towards the back of his boat, his touch lingering until he moved too far, and he slipped away.


	5. The Mirror

That night after sunset, they found the graveyard where the Carlin family was buried—mother and father and their two sons in plots with browning grass atop them. Dean tried not to think too hard about how fucked up it was to dig up the tiny grave of an infant who never even took a breath and burn its bones, and focused instead on the doppelganger that was attached to the remains. This job wasn’t always pretty, and compartmentalization was key. When that didn’t work, whiskey did.

They dug up Brendon Carlin’s bones and burned them, too, because the doppelganger had latched onto him and wandered through life alongside him, so it was possible some of that energy was attached to his remains. The flames lit up the night with an amber glow, way too hot as they mixed with the humidity, like the air itself might ignite. They left charred dust in their wake. The dirt clung to Dean’s skin, streaked down his face with beads of sweat.

Grim work over, Dean and Cas filled in the graves with muddy soil and went back to their rental, planning on sleeping off the case and getting up early to head back to the bunker. But Dean was too wired to sleep. He tried for a little while before giving up and heading downstairs to watch some TV. One of the very late night talk shows that no one ever stayed up to watch was on, and hearing the studio audience’s laughter made Dean feel as if he didn’t really exist—that maybe he was dreaming, after all. He sipped on a beer from the fridge—because it turned out burning a baby’s bones was pretty jarring, but it was hot and he didn’t want to start sweating whiskey.

He sat there on the edge of the couch, leaning into the armrest, the blue flickering light of the television the only thing playing on his face. The beer bottle in his hand was slick with condensation and the corners of the label peeled back to form a dull grin. On the coffee table, his phone sounded off with a notification from the Nest Cam, but he ignored it, because it was probably just a deer in the driveway; and, they were leaving tomorrow, so at this point he really didn’t care. He should probably delete the app.

He wasn’t really watching the TV—just kind of staring vacantly at it instead—but he was knocked out of his daze when he heard the floorboards upstairs creak, long and slow. There were footsteps sounding from above, and he realized the late night show had ended and an infomercial selling a grill had taken its place. It was right about then that the footsteps got to the top of the stairs, paused, and then descended. Cas was a silhouette in the darkness, his shoulders drooping. Apparently, neither one of them could sleep.

Dean watched him, unblinking, as Cas jounced down to the last step and paced over to the couch. He was in boxers and a t-shirt, feet bare, and he looked unbelievably soft. “Hey,” Dean said, still staring up at him as Cas hovered in front of the couch.

After a second, Cas offered him a little smile. “Hi.” His eyes were on Dean before briefly flickering to the TV and then back again. “What are you watching?” He sat down on the couch, leaning back where Dean’s arm was slung lazily over the top of the cushion.

Some kind of pressure welled up in Dean, building like the air before a rainstorm. “Ah, nothing,” he said, looking back at the TV. “You think the bunker needs an outdoor grill?”

Cas’ shoulders moved as he shuffled into a more comfortable position. His hands were folded loosely in this lap, and Dean really wanted to hold them but he fisted his hand instead. “We could invite the neighbors to a barbeque. Perhaps build a patio,” he joked, voice low and dry.

“Why stop at a patio?” Dean said. “We could build a pool. Waterslide and everything. Hell, we could even put in some swings for the kids.”

“A dog run.”

Dean frowned. “No dogs.” And then, upon reflection, “Okay, maybe that dog that hangs around the hardware store. She’s pretty cool.”

Cas seemed okay with that compromise. “Deal.”

It was kind of fun, and kind of sad, planning out this imaginary normal life they’d never have. But Dean had done the whole backyard barbeque thing with Lisa and Ben, and it definitely hadn’t been his favorite thing in the world. But maybe it would be better with Cas. And maybe it didn’t matter, because normal just wasn’t their thing—yet, somehow, they’d built a life together anyway. It had been slow to start, and then it happened all at once.

They’d keep building it, hopefully. Because Dean meant what he’d said on the boat that day. He really _was_ trying to drop the baggage between them and start fresh, to _make_ something real. And he’d do anything he had to so they could get to that point—whatever Cas needed him to do. He wanted to say all that, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment. Words always messed them up, got in their way, coming out in ways they didn’t mean. Maybe, right now, it was enough that Cas offered him and small smile, and Dean smiled back, and then they went back to watching TV, volume a low mumble in the shadows.

In the end, it was Cas who broke the silence. He said, “Dean, I think we could do it,” he said, half-turning his face Dean’s way. Dean looked over at him as Cas continued, “Be a team again.” He turned fully. “I’d like to try.”

Bubbles, like breathing out underwater, rose in Dean’s chest. He fought back a giddy grin and said, “Sounds good to me.”

Cas hesitated, seeming uncertain. He asked, “How do we start?”

Dean’s bark of laughter echoed in the small space. His fist uncurled, and he wrapped his hand around Cas’ far shoulder. Leaning in, he said, “We could do this.” Cas tilted his head to the side and kissed back—just a chaste, warm, dry thing. When it broke, he let out a heavy breath, like relief, and nuzzled the point of his nose into the side of Dean’s. And Dean thought, he was so happy he might just die.

And then a floorboard upstairs creaked.

Both of their heads whipped up to look at the ceiling, Dean’s eyes fixed on the corner where the ceiling and the wall met. He held his breath, just listening. The sound happened again, a little more drawn out this time, and a few steps away from where it had been before. It was right above their heads.

They shared a look, Cas’ expression now hard, and Dean’s the same. Slowly, they got to their feet, necks still tilted upwards to eye the ceiling, like either of them could see through solid wood. Keeping his voice down, Dean asked, “Weapons bag still in the kitchen?” Cas nodded. Great, so whatever was upstairs was between them and their guns.

Another groan of floorboards.

Dean looked around his immediate area, seeing what he had at his disposal. There was a table lamp with a ceramic base, brightly colored cartoon fish painted on it. It wouldn’t do much, but it was something. He picked it up, and ripped the cord out from the wall socket. Cas glanced at him, and Dean shrugged. It was better than nothing. The only problem was, there wasn’t anything else in the room for Cas to use as a weapon. They’d have to get upstairs and move quickly.

Dean lifted his hand to be level with his ear, made eye contact, and gestured towards the staircase. Slowly, as quietly as possible, they made for it. It helped that both of them were barefoot, but Dean was practically on his tiptoes as they ascended the flight, gritting his teeth more and more with every soft whine that sounded from the worn wood under his feet. Cas was close behind him—his breath on Dean’s neck, their bodies brushing and bumping. At the top of the stairs, the kitchen and dining room were dark, only the silvery light of the moon casting any shadows. Dean listened out, but the footsteps had stopped.

When they got upstairs, he looked around clocking every dark corner. The room was empty. Together, they made for the weapons duffel on the dining room table, and Dean set the lamp down as gently as he could. Cas pushed back the flaps on the bag and dug inside. He handed Dean his Colt pistol, and the pulled out his angel blade. The metal of it glinted sharply.

Dean made a gesture towards the hallway, signaling that Cas should check the back of the house. Cas nodded, and turned on his heels, blade held ready in his fist. Dean sidled up to the window, his back to the wall. He peered around, out the glass, at the back deck. His eyes scanned it, but it was empty. The swamp beyond was still, the muffled audio of the tree frogs groaning coming in from outside.

He moved to the front of the house to check the deck there, too. All clear. He wasn’t letting his guard down yet.

A floorboard sounded behind him, and he whipped around, gun first. Cas was standing in the mouth of the hallway, face a dark pit in the shadows. Dean could see the outline of his shoulders, the way the moonlight hit the tips of his hair. His hands were hanging loosely at his sides. Dean uncoiled somewhat, and breathed out as he lowered his gun. He guessed that meant Cas hadn’t found anything, either.

He wasn’t too inclined to believe himself as he said, “I got nothing. Maybe an animal got under the floor.” It was wishful thinking, and the tingling on his skin told him it was wrong. Something was off. He was missing something. He brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes. There was a dull thudding just behind them. The air was stifling. “Man, I can’t wait ‘til this place isn’t our problem anymore.”

When he opened his eyes again and dropped his hand, Cas wasn’t there anymore. His forehead lined. “Cas?” And then he realized what he’d been missing. Cas hadn’t been holding his angel blade. A bead of sweat dragged down Dean’s spine. He raised his gun. “Cas?” he called, louder.

“Yeah?” he heard from the back of the house.

There were quick footsteps, and soon enough Cas was rounding the corner from the hallway and striding into the room. His blade was in hand. As he came closer, the moonlight lit up his features in full, and they looked concerned. “What is it?”

Dean lowered his gun, but kept both hands on it. His stomach was roiling. “Were you just standing over there?” he asked, gesturing over to the empty threshold.

Cas knitted his brows together and quickly looked over his shoulder. “Where?” he asked, frowning.

“There,” Dean snipped. “In the hall. Like, not even a minute ago?”

Cas locked up, posture going straighter. His blade moved slightly as he tightened his grip around the handle. “No.”

 _Fuck_. The air was pressing in so tight, it was hard to breathe. Dean thought back to every interaction he’d had with Cas over the past few days, thought about every time he’d seen Cas out by the swamp on the Nest Cam. He tried to think if anything weird stood out, anything not quite right, not quite _Cas_. He wondered if this was a new thing, or if the doppelganger had been with them the whole time.

“Dean?” Cas asked, voice quite, taking one step forward.

Dean’s eyes swept up to him. “Cas, I don’t think this thing’s dead.”

They’d burned the bones, but that didn’t always mean the spirit was gone. He doubted there were any cursed objects tied to a stillborn baby, but maybe it was attached to something of Carlin’s. “Okay, keep looking. I’ll be right back,” Dean said, turning back towards the stairs. “And be careful,” he called over his shoulder. He rushed down the stairs and scooped up his phone on the coffee table, then scrolled through his contacts for Mrs. Carlin’s number. The line trilled, and with each unanswered ring Dean could feel bile rising up in his throat.

Everything seemed so much more urgent now. He couldn’t help the way his heel bounced, or the blood rushing in his ears, or the way he was white-knuckling the phone. The doppelganger looked like Cas. It was after _Cas_. If there was ever a form to take—.

“Hello?”

Dean’s heart jumped. “Mrs. Carlin, hi. This is Agent Young. Sorry about calling so late, but it’s urgent.”

Her voice sounded rough and sleepy over the line. “Um, okay. It’s—.”

He didn’t have time for this. “This may sound like a weird question, but, after your husband died, did you keep anything of his? Special, I mean? Maybe something of value to him?”

She let out a little confused sound. “Of course. I still have all his things.”

That wasn’t really what he was looking for, and he doubted Mrs. Carlin would appreciate him burning down her whole house with all her late husband’s belongings inside just to be safe. “No, like something that was basically a part of him? Like his wedding ring or a watch or—or a lock of hair.”

“Well,” she said, unsurely, “his wedding ring is with him. But—oh, you know what? His mother had a locket. Instead of pictures, she kept a piece of his hair inside it.”

Dean didn’t even care about how gross that was. “His hair?”

“Yeah,” she said. “From when he was a baby. Him and his twin brother’s.”

Dean clamped his jaw down, skin prickling numbly. They needed to get that locket and torch it. “Do you have it?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

“God, no,” she said, a little more awake now. “It was buried with her.”

They had to go back to the graveyard.

“Agent, what’s all this ab—?”

He hung up the call, and pressed the top of his phone against his forehead, the warm metal a hard line on his skin. His head was pounding with pressure. He took a second to collect himself—just one second—and then a board groaned upstairs.

He looked up. “Cas?” he called, and waited. Nothing.

And then there was another creak. It sounded like it was far away, coming from the back of the house.

Dean turned slowly. He tossed his phone on the couch cushion so he could hold his gun with both hands. He paced to the base of the stairs, one foot in front of the other.

“Cas?” he called again, and it was tough to get out past the lump in his throat. “That you walking around up there?”

There was a pause, and then another creak—and another. Someone was walking towards the stairs, coming from the hallway. The footsteps were slow, deliberate, the floorboards cracking like aching bones beneath it as it moved. Something was ratcheting up Dean’s chest, his heart pounding against his ribs. The footsteps got closer. Behind him, the TV was still murmuring on low volume. The air was so thick and saturated as it pushed down into his lungs, he thought it could drown him.

The safety on his gun clicked as he slid it back. He aimed it at the top of the stairs.

Cas came into view, the moonlight bathing one side of his face. The rest of him was dark. He wasn’t holding his blade. He stopped at the top of the stairs and stared down at Dean, face expressionless, eyes still.

“Why didn’t you answer?” Dean asked, not lowering his weapon. His finger twitched on the trigger, but he didn’t make a move to shoot. He didn’t know if he could if he tried.

Cas didn’t answer. He just kept staring.

“Cas?” Dean asked, just loud enough to make his voice echo through the house. He paused, listening out for a distant, muffled response. Nothing. He licked his lips. “You good?”

Cas remained silent, unmoving. Dean kept his eyes locked on him. He watched as, slowly, Cas pulled the corners of his lips up into a mild, barely-there smile. None of it showed in his eyes. He said, “I’m fine.”

Dean wanted to choke.

He pulled his body tighter when Cas moved, just to turn around. He walked back into the darkness, wood whining. Dean listened, breath coming out in short puffs timed with the creaking of the boards, as Cas walked to the back of the house. There was a drawn out squeal, like the hinges of a door, and then the sound of a door closing.

Dean tried to convince himself this wasn’t real.

He nearly jumped out of his skin and discharged his gun when the now familiar chime of the Nest Cam lit up his phone. He stared at it until the light faded, and then his body kicked into life. He rushed over to the couch and snatched up his phone. The notification banner was on his screen.

_Activity detected in backyard_

His bones were nearly vibrating against his muscles as he slid opened the notification, and a livestream of the swamp popped up. Cas was on the dock, angel blade at his side, as he looked around. On screen, he startled, and spun around, weapon ready. Then, the line of his shoulders relaxed. “Dean,” he heard him say over the tree frog calls.

Dean froze. He watched another figure walk into frame, moving down the dirt path towards the dock. Towards Cas. For a second, he thought he was watching a past recording, but he knew better.

The thing on the screen looked exactly like him.

///

There was mud from the path on the bottom of his feet. Castiel could feel it, spongy and slick, seeping between his toes. He stood on the dock, eyes scanning the swamp. The water barely rippled. There was no sign of life in the depths. The mangroves leaned in on each other, like hands reaching out across the bleakness, fingers slipping together but not quite taking hold.

A squelching sound was behind him, and Castiel whipped around, expecting to find his own doppelganger. Dean’s face was in the shadows, his feet sinking half an inch into the mud as he walked down the path. “Dean,” Castiel said, relieved. He lowered his blade, and let his grip relax around it. “There’s nothing out here. Maybe it’s still inside.” Dean came onto the dock, the loose wooden planks lifting and thumping back down under him. He didn’t say anything.

Castiel furrowed his brows. “Dean?” Something felt strange between them, as if the air itself at changed. Dean came up close to him, and put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing the bone and sinew tight. His eyes were blank. Realization washed over Castiel. He set his jaw. “You’re not Dean.”

Quickly, he tightened his grip on his blade and arced it up, meaning to tear into the doppelganger’s chest. The Other Dean caught him by the wrist, gripping hard, like he meant to bruise. He forced Castiel’s arm away from him. His hand on Castiel’s shoulder tightened, and he used it as leverage to push him away. Castiel stumbled backwards a few steps, his heels hanging off the dock over the water before he could catch his balance.

“Cas!” someone was shouting. Castiel looked over, and found Dean running at full speed towards the dock. The mud of the path sucked at his feet, getting kicked up in clumps that slung through the air behind him and splattered back down. It slowed him somewhat. His pistol was raised, face hardened, and he aimed it at the Other Dean.

There was something behind him—a shadow, chasing at his heels. It moved into the moonlight, and Castiel saw himself. There were two of them. Two doppelgangers. Two brothers. He wondered if Dean knew. “Dean!” he called, trying to warn him.

A crack sounded through the air as Dean fired his gun, but the Other Castiel had caught up with him. His hands were on Dean’s shoulders, forcing him backwards. The shot missed its mark, and went through the wood in front of the Other Dean’s feet. Castiel barely had time to process it before the Other Dean grabbed him by the front of the shirt and tossed him down. He hit the deck with a hard thud, and his blade was ripped from his grip. It slid away and landed in the mud.

The Other Dean was rushing towards the fight, where Dean landed a blow to the Other Castiel’s jaw. “Dean,” Castiel muttered, everything in him telling him to get up, to get Dean to safety, to overlook his own aches and pains. He lifted himself up by the hands, and scrambled for his blade. The silver was caked in mud.

A bare foot came down on his wrist, making him cry out. He looked up, vision tunneling. The Other Castiel leaned down and grabbed him by the shirt to lift him up. They were face-to-face, and an image flashed into Castiel’s head—darkness all around him, darkness inside him, everything empty, his face staring back at him. He shook away the memory, and slammed his forehead into the Other Castiel’s. His vision blacked out upon impact, and his skull spiked with pain, but the Other Castiel had stumbled back a few steps, too, and had grunted in pain.

Dean and the Other were on the ground, one straddling the other, bloodying his face with his knuckles. Castiel couldn’t tell if it was his Dean—if he was winning or losing. His knees felt like jelly, but he tried to recover. He swooped down, the world spinning, and grabbed the hilt of the blade. He came up, spinning around to get momentum, getting the blade into position. The Other Castiel had recovered, too, and was lunging forward. Castiel jabbed the blade forward, right into the Other’s gut. There was a sound like tearing, wet fabric.

The Other Castiel stilled, like a broken film reel. His expression blanked, his eyes went far away. There was no white light, no blast from within. No wings. The Other Castiel seemed confused. Castiel watched as the Other finally reacted, and he did so with a gag. His body shuddered and convulsed. Blood dripped down from his lips, moving down his chin. Castiel forced his arm back, withdrawing the blade. The Other fell, face in the mud. His dead eyes stared.

Castiel brought his gaze up, to where Dean was sending more blows down on the Other’s face. The sounds of bone on flesh were audible. Castiel stumbled forward, the blade heavy in his hand. He spotted something metal glinting in the moonlight in the dead grass between himself and Dean. Dean’s gun.

He dropped the blade, and picked up the pistol, metal warm in his hand. He aimed it at Dean’s back. He paused. Because he had to be sure. He had to be sure this was the right Dean. That this was _his_ Dean. He drew in a breath, and closed his eyes, focusing. He opened them, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet landed between the Other Dean’s shoulder blades, and his body jerked as he fell to the side. He was writhing, breath coming out choppy. Dean was no better. He pushed the Other off of him as best he could, and then wriggled out from under him the rest of the way. Castiel walked forward, and stared down coolly at the Other Dean. The Other Dean looked back, eyes wide, full of horror. They flickered to the side, where the Other Castiel’s body lay. “Cas,” he choked out, begging, broken, and he looked up again, angry. And then, he lifted his head. His pearly teeth were stained with blood. “Do it!”

Castiel sent another bullet into his chest, the shot ringing out across the water, and the Other’s body jerked and then went still.

Dean stood up, panting hard. A gash was on his hairline, sending trickling blood down the side of his face. There were bruises blooming on his face, cuts on his cheekbones. His lip was split. He looked down at the Other, motionless on the earth, blood mixing into the mud, and then back to Castiel. “How’d you know it was me?” he asked.

Castiel looked at him levelly. “I always know when it’s you,” he said.

For a second, Dean paused, and then his eyes sparkled. A closed-mouth smile lit up his face. Castiel smiled back.

They decided to leave at once. First, they dragged the Others to the dock, and they rolled into the swamp with echoing splashes. Castiel watched his own face disappear into the black abyss, and then bob back up again to float. The bodies would sink in a matter of hours, or they wouldn’t even last that long. A crocodile would come to rip them apart. No one would ever know. No one would even have a reason to come looking until the next month, after the rent was long past due, and they would only find the house abandoned.

They went inside and packed their things. They destroyed the Nest Cams, the dead eyes shattering under Dean’s boot on the concrete driveway.

No one would ever know.

Dean fished into his pocket and pulled out the car keys, fiddling with them momentarily before finding the right one. He slid into the driver’s side, and Castiel fit into the passenger’s. And they just sat there, Dean’s hand on the steering wheel, Cas’ in his lap. There was silence. And the tree frogs. And the buzzing of mosquitoes. The moths, wings flapping, circling the streetlamps. The heat, ever present, like it had a life of its own that had burrowed inside of their flesh.

Dean turned his head slowly to Castiel, and Castiel looked back. They stared at one another for a long time, unblinking. One side of Dean’s face was lit up in dim orange by the lamp across the street; the other side was in the shadows. The corners of his lips pulled up in a small, wooden smile. Castiel returned it, expression bare.

Then, Dean turned forward and put the key in the ignition. The car’s engine rumbled into life as it turned over. He drove out of the driveway, wheels bouncing over the curb. He turned down the road, in the direction of the highway.

No one would ever know.

In the side view mirror, Castiel watched the house fade into the night behind them, and then he refocused his eyes. His reflection stared back at him.


End file.
